November Decals

My isolation is invidious;
Further isolation is imposed as a sanction.
My oxymoronic indigenous
16th-Galway-hair, ne'er avulsed by English traction,
Disconcerts.

In spite of sumptuary officials sent to verify verse written for tacit readerships,
I write for a muse, eccedentesiast, whose eyes do not smile at me in accord with his lips
But are frightened and minatory, seeming to say, "Away, no one asked you to write about me,"
While faithful to that other muse who is not a subject, the one who has come to me divinely.

As those with stammers, to obviate disfluency, audition words before stating what they want,
And are thus learning new ways, words, syntax, new things they desire, in procrustean kerning of font,
I tune rhyme into a state of proper harmony. Poetry is a revelation of what
I desire and what I praise and oppugn, for a muse who is subject, and by a muse who is not.