Sunrise tree

His Ulcer

Now be finds that before-dinner martinis do not
Dissolve the stainless steel and fiber glass husks
Of hastily gobbled weekdays; nor do they saturate
The flesh with the pleasures of evening love.

In the tents of pine-scented week ends he let
The gnaw of weekday fret derange the repairing
Shimmer of his children turning up glossy
Questions under stones some stream discovered.

Fleeing both ends of the magnetic home-office track
Simultaneously has translated from the world at large
Into entrail canals and ducting, a garden of brutality,
In flames of gallflower fed by unused love decomposing.

This is the badge of efficiency; technology's
Medal of honor—to love, allergic, I am told.
Glowing in a vacuum where love should grow,
A fierce organ of rebellion is rejecting him.
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