From murk-filled
depth, the unmaker—
little death from
which all sloth
does come—
rises
to squelch, slime-
smeared from left or
right ventricle up
capillaries to seat
of man, now
dethroned
immured to a
ribbed cage,
irons round
fatted calves, while
time-gorged with
leaps not taken,
the usurper burrows
fetid tentacles into
grey velvet folds, a
sort of un-
gyrification, each
parasite hook
best removed early
lest it become
entrenched.