Jason Ryberg
The mist is moving
through the deep piney backwoods
like an army of
gray ghosts, while some strange figure
at the dark heart of
the forest is chopping at
the uncarved block of
human potentia with
Occam’s double-bladed axe.
Jason Ryberg
The real politique
of life / the surrealities
of nature / the cold,
lonely paths of satellites
sailing across the night sky.
It’s all about cross-
winds at the crossroads, milkweed
pods and matchstick men,
bluebirds, meteors and the
unreason of midnight rain.
—Jason Ryberg