Vice precedent to a moat of peculiar discursions Reading the room as a rainbow in its cupboard I am real enough for anything, but for anyone I wait An untitled napkin awaiting its phone number Bound instead for a pocket dimension of missed signals Upon the whispering and rebounding can I be fallen into, Toward, or alongside; glass from the sands of your paradise Compressed into usability By whatever I misunderstood Summer is tea, hot air is in season Knocking against presumption in my conditioning Myself to overreact to all people masquerading with things Artifice billing itself as the symposium trial of drowning In knowledge those who wish to understand their brokenness Are too tired to shout Having yesterday glinting Upon their objectivist blade drawn in bad-faith crayon; Striving to map the community as its moribund Theseus Impressing the hills as though broken wind is novel And judge thee not refuse, for its purpose exceeds theirs Hoover atop Investigative Hill muttering "Pussy Galore"