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
accumulating 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?