i took an instagram, therefore i am

i live (i was elected so).
i haven’t any following.
i’m not made real by kneeling here,
before the pond leaves’ absolution.

inside each glen
that carves in elms,
the space is uninheritable.
the times are theirs, though i keep watch.

i feather in november mud
where i am bedfast,
where i am lightproof.

i try to sing the songs i’ve learned,
ordain a ministry in the brush
and transmute the world into some medium,

if even just a mandate of one
where i am relevant
and ever heard

(from).