The Psychodynamic

Never this beauty, the logical operators
Eating their meanings, gasping gulps of
Scintillation! Anguish that the tale
Will have a tail, and that the telling
Rats:

They roll their beady eyes across the room,
Red as a blood-curdling wine, trailing
Amalgamations of the floor and ceiling,
Making all the things we should know
Indeterminate, elusive, fleeting.