The necessity of necessity
regresses. The tide line slides
to a fine joint, where the dark
sand meets the sunshine and re
enters the land of dry individuation,
a continuation of particular
articulation, driven by waves
of close enough shaves
where whales end their
lives if there's enough
plastic in the krill. Sad
as a need unmet, if the
useful set deems it
unnecessary. Clarity
dries out on the line,
one nine at a time. Oh,
those repeating nines,
they make a one as long
as they repeat forever. We
sever our selves like servers,
the waiting kind, applications
on intractable sand, shifting
like the desert's scent
in the morning.
Roman Ryan 