“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” T.S. Eliot
The prongs of a many-faceted emotion are carted
Off into parcels, mouthfuls of tasteless, morbid sums
And cancellations. They are bred anew for laughter.
The songs of a many-faceted inhumanity are dissolved
In a vestibule leading to languid quarters breeding a
New kin of steam, a strain too thick, too coarse to hide.
The wrongs of a many-faceted resolution of earth,
Dust, rock, and harm are given anew to semantics
Of pain and lacerated joy. They will be there tomorrow.
Roughly edged conversation is the mouthpiece
Of an introversion that mumbles in space
The cornerflaps revel in untombed severances
Cutting the heart of story midway, break
Ing the space of ample possibilities, and asking
The eviscerated query: is it dawn yet?
Is it time for a hunched over deliverance to seek
To beg, to want to give to need its want
Of need, and to arrive afresh on the shores: this
Is new? Is this new? The hunched over
The roughly edged, the carried over after division
The "repeat after me," the varied of noun.