Abortion

When I kill a dithyramb rooted
in our just done row, I feel like
a mother who aborts, hardened
by hollowness of her hymnody.
Previously I was supportive of
poetry sourced from our rent,
happy with the hypothesis,
result is essential, not rootage.
Through quire of observation,
I gathered incubating contagion
of our nimiety is an effort in
otioseness. Pounded by pollen
our shores must subsist without it.