but really it's english hiking,
yes, it's england where
you can't escape cultivation -
even in the countryside
the countryside
where a pheasant didn't ask
for the peat bog blood on its feet
where a pheasant survived,
it survived the seasons -
the shooting season,
the winter season,
and the countryside
where a pheasant waits
for the shooting season
to begin again
and i wonder if they'll know this one,
those shooters,
that this one survived?
will they know that this is a two season sort of bird?
a special fantastic feather?
a special prize?
another church production beheld by a man with a telescopic lense?
anyway,
later on, being queer doesn’t affect me, i said,
being trans doesn't affect me,
it's a problem other people have with me -
their problem
and i treat my life like therapy
or like i do in therapy
or like the post-therapy entire burrata now pizzetta or whatever,
like i trade chance for the rhyme cycle
like my tire goes flat and i’ve now more work to do, i'm
trapped here in the posh part of town like i'm
considering human life expectancy within a single english city,
like a single english hike with standard deviations -
pathological -
and i pump my tube
stripped by passing pedestrians well dressed
another shot from the eyes
and just a bird, sort of, maybe, not,
and it doesn’t affect me, i said,
mimicking the family syntax,
if not the experience