The title is a made-up word, and it fits a poem about how we turn people into something purely evil. The opening lines suggest that hate, when it stays abstract, doesn't blaze up. It shrinks into "a tired road," something worn and dull that we just keep walking. The speaker and the others around them fall silent, and the odd phrase "unthank the dust riding us" hints at a weary refusal to be grateful for the grime that clings to them.
The final stanzas are harder to pin down, and the grammar seems deliberately broken. "No news / is what what we have done / to the enemy" can be read as saying we've erased the enemy from view, leaving nothing to report. The stumbling repeated "what" adds to the sense of someone struggling to say it. The last lines suggest the enemy has little purpose of its own, as if it exists mostly because we need it. The mood is flat, tired, and quietly uneasy, more a numb recognition than an angry outburst.