From “now”

at the borders of systems always something a bit extra

like beyond the slash of begonia an ancillary, almost

bitter, pink—there linger there drugged out

on phenotypical essences, craven & horny & hardwired

for whatever’s on the brink splintering

oranges erupting in odorous flame—linger

by the exquisite corpse of this delay

dragged out & fatally nervous

& in the head derision roses

you minister the margins

of apoplectic reed, murmurs in the hearts of palms

a speed of thought hitherto unrealized

a speed of access to what’s now

where the margin of error is is