The futility of hope vs. fir cone crabgrass nearshoring

tedious concrete blades like merchant class
echocardiograms lifting sand in scraping nebulae,
we won’t think, not to retire re-tuning spires
or sensationalized black spores drinking at
mid-evening dives for lost love giving him
sinking rain from night skies like abraded skin.
he did not understand you, and you did not care,
and the merchant class continued to champion,
with its concrete blades and scraping nebulae.