'Tis never mere presence;
my daisy among roses
no humbled yet downcasted,
in shame for my losses;
my loopholes they filled
but overfilled with measures,
no intend but belittled
for relation's not my leisure;
worst with those ages;
beyond where I've gone
their storage of knowledge
not a quarter I'm fond;
maybe entirely even,
maybe entirely none,
though never that only
my anxiety had sons;
the disgust on their visage
upon my coming,
since unknown of my species,
I crumpled humming;
my sonnets--unfamiliar;
perhaps, alien in their world,
in their freezing choral embrace,
not a single word;
my legality's unpaid
by the expertise for social
or mere scratch of esteem
they're so visioned as racial
but years of theorizing,
it's never mine nor their presence;
it's the treatment among selves
where esteem roots my reasons.
