Object Poem? (I am bad at names)

The book is me, where it jumps from queer to strange with a

ragged, ruined range in between, where the Rs have been ripped from their roost like

me, the me who must go, who must fly the nest, me, the me from R to R,

ripped from my roots, my refuge, my refuse I cannot run from and will not run to.

R to R like the reticent roar I am, I am that ragged, ruined, range removed from

right where it should be, roaming the rooms at the rear of the wrong place,

roaming a roost that is not my refuge, but roundabout ramblings.

I am not the robber, I am the robbed, reeling from the rooted requirement

that I do not rob, but reap, reap before the reaper, wrapped in his raven robe,

reaps me, wrapped in my wrinkled, ratted raiment. But the reaper robs, too,

round and round, reaps robbers and rulers, readily relinquishing rues to the regulars who remain.

But I am not a robber and I am not a reaper and I am not a regular. I will relinquish my rues

to the ethereal rift and realize the right in the light and the dark in the night,

if right is really there in that ream of spritely spite: red regurgitations, roiling and riled,

ripped from the vile, as the heads roll ruby clean above the rasping of rampant rats.

You can rip the roots and rest them in repose, but they remain,

and the ragged, ruined range remains. From R to R you can rend and spur it out,

but it is still there, retching, but resplendent, for all your rites of normality.

The womb from which it is rutted, rounded, and ringed remains,

and from that womb will birth again.

Are you ready?