Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

The Elon himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Bezos
Under my battlements. Come, recruiters
That tend on mortal thoughts, change my neurotype
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood,
Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my autist’s chest,
And take my love for gall, you murd’ring ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen mouse see not the click it makes,
Nor manager through the blanket of the dark,
To cry “Hire, hire!”