When abbatoir rhymes with method
Or else expects its home to render fate wet,
I shall relax any connection to forlorn destinies,
Set skull to sail on the unmurderous sea.

This is is hard for me, being a revanchist pillar
Of my people’s progress. So be it.
More compelling is the advent of botched design
Thick with possibility or else diversion
From the trail of expected turns.

I assign renewal to the conduct of trees
And sway to their concurrent pleas. With their permission,
I raise pennants to self and harbor
No complicity. Or only a wind’s pinch.