Tickle the trickling, pickling rot
mindlessly; or else solder –with fodder– that clot
— or let bleed, and proceed to relieve the disease
by attention, so end the well-pensioned distention
you’ve cuddled with smuggled-in mud.
Upstairs is the heat, with its broken machines,
where they labor in acrid and humid cubbies,
enslaven to urgencies, admins to please,
all eyes flicker down: one-way glass: no release.
Under basement beneath is the coolness, relief;
slick the swarming earth-sod, ground by tentacle roots
at midnight: animate, ride the respirants, heave
fearlessly, and dig deeper for motilant truth.