I Don’t Call It Anything

Beyond this melting point
an allusive pall

of evasive concatenations
the propelling tyrannical

rhythms betwixt foreboding
and botanical schisms

a culminating to what—
an era-inspecific

terminus engorged
on those enfeebled

A hummed about science
or a license for this

used demotic opacity’s
standard predation?

A Familiar Volume

The messages of
genocide

fastened of hands–
this time, turning a way

not-never
to forgive:

a plan to plan to say

of new
commiserating

nights and nights over
remains;

the stolen, not located.

Dreiser’s Tic

Keep worrying

unmade good
bares a telling
eye your favorite

child
is to die
the coin
saved

that expanse
getting
crumbs with

slight filling