A new poem by Blaise Moritz


Venom and sales, our motto.
In fess point of Swiss
escutcheon, our charge,

a canine tooth, argent peak
aggressively statant
in sable field. An order

of traitors, all traitors
to each other, behind
our shields, we bite

and earn, late into the night
like tractor trailers
hurtling cargo once

all the weigh stations
are closed.