There’s something about apathy
at the table, where the
group sits, divides and multiplies.
Blossoms of vine orchid, that
foreign star whose light is
all that remains.
Remnants of heartfelt reverberations,
all tendrils spread out an
orbit of the chaotic.
What order shall these arms
bring, but immanence, limit
experiences, limited by incessant
This I shall, I shall stand upon
that moving, shifting, cornucopiac