Feeling Transcripts from the Outpost

To step into it, time being

funnily sequenced or accruing


laterally: a botanic tyranny

is moss, is how listening


dithers at the drum and I

follow it out to the fence.


There is a system to regress

in November. What they elect,


I supplant in private

and orphic degradation.


The garden affronts luxury

as it does moderation.


I burrow for radicals

against a less provident future.


For matter is in discord

like the forked philosophy


of a leafy bract subtending

the last measled bloom


of which I am regent

and which I uphold


against everything’s

nothing. No, not


just that but the site’s sublime

demolition.

 

It’s like I have a second mouth

to degust in sedition.