Arrives again the garden oracle
With her branchy appetite,
Free to be true —
Yet cursed by lack of words
and automatic writing
and little courage to say what’s meant,
Like harlequins hurled high into the fungal field
For global fruiting.
The memetic sabotage!
There’s no magic in prostitution.
Yet bud to blossom,
She’s here to stay
For the honor in post-lingual thinking.
The man-eating metaphor weeds
Are NOT her doing.
She is NOT the one robbing sentience of pertinence.
We yield our trabeated thinking.