Ryan Dement

Ryan Dement Aug 2020

With a candle
we shuffle,
against
a Roman wind,
when it goes out,
we return to the fire
to start
to shuffle
again.

Ryan Dement Aug 2020

Every little
noising,
some dried-out
decision.

Ryan Dement Aug 2020

Paper.

I flip you
like pages,
you make me
ticker tape
dizzy.

Ryan Dement Aug 2020

Them.

They think me sad,
disheveled,
too loud
at times.

Ryan Dement Aug 2020

Bugs.

There are bugs
who bounce
and flit
between
the same empty
things,
who would ever,
who would ever?

Ryan Dement Aug 2020

Chores.

I imagine you
mopping,
mad
but determined.

Ryan Dement Aug 2020

I wrote poems
for half an hour,
so I guess
I still do that.