Terror Incognita

Another snuff in the box,
The Empire’s ambassadors
bring a gift on their march
to treat the Poet to a talk—
the kind glazed with sighs,
“We’ve had more than enough.”

Here’s where the search ends;
a gaggle of jays, an airlift of spies
on a mission to condition and capture
a beard of bees abuzz—unsweetened,
unwelcomed, and “out-of-line”—
the Poet, it seems, has been

data-mined. Terror Incognita,
lying somewhere-west-of-centre,
boiling at sixty-nine degrees—
sequestered among the sequoias
of the asinine—my furlough-marching pleas
beg to know, “What d’you mean, officers?

Surely, the fallout of your tax shelters—
digs into—you to remember what your nation
had bred out; have you no minds? Do you not
still feel the burn; the ash crashing,
the waterfall of it all running—purged
carbon-copiously—like rivers from your kind?”

Opening the canister, I reel—they shield
their eyes—and at once, we’re pillars
of salt assaulted by its contents; we have dust
blown-out from our hearts, and the audience
of armed, unlearnèd men (consoled that words
never could hurt them), weeps at these lines.