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We sit at gray monitors, listening
to confused Eloi in tusky towers
divergently evolving. Always
there’s a compatibility problem
between the overfocused poets
and the language of machines.

The Eloi cry doom over bright wires,
voices spores. Our minds fuzz mycotic.
No dystopia’s perfect: we have a bitter savior
so we shamble, spidery, pale, seeking ambrosia.
Faith’s no narcotic once you’ve lost humanity,
so we take noon communion in free hot coffee.