By: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Your eyes are cove familiar
binoculars of a particular leering
dilated sentiments from broken mason jars
the centuries between us a simple jump rope
nobody can seem to master
and you are not dead because my mind is fierce
with grievances,
the tar and feathers of cowards
arranged in my side table
in such a way as to make hallways
seem like carpeted eternity;
you would hardly fancy our current crop of orators –
a man who longs to be a thesaurus
is hardly a man,
looking for words in a way
he has never searched
for himself.