At first it is no more than simple distinctions.
Little more than limits and distinctions.
And thus you say to me, “What a pleasant season!”
And it feels right to have been granted such, my dear.
And soon they begin to present themselves
in flashing increments – flashing and repeating
increments which sputter and elide upon a
surface of erratic, flickering frames.
And you bring me flowers, preventing my next step.
What, then, can I do but halt before first harvest,
baste myself in the slender pink of June?
This is a central truth of jokers and barons –
the latter estranged in an uncanny remove,
the former mired in penumbral spaces:
that jubilee is where the moot is inflected.
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