**OVERNIGHT IN THE FEEDBACK LOOP**
In the pebbled hush of the HR portal,
I typed my dreams in lowercase—
a selfie resume framed by weeks
of forgotten lunches, grey
in the way static flickers at 3 A.M.
Servers hiss like serpents in Eden’s cubicle,
sibilant with performance metrics.
Somewhere, a chatbot flirts convincingly
with a widow in Tampa. And we—
well, we click “agree” like prayers,
smoothing our psyches into
the lamination of Terms & Conditions.
On aisle seven, your face on a cereal box
grins beside discount quinoa. This…
this must be love in its gluten-free form,
shelf-stable, whispering sweet allergens.
My password expired on our anniversary.
I reset it to your maiden name.
But by lunch, you had unfollowed me
for a brand influencer with holographic abs.
Even desire, I learn, comes pre-curated,
wrapped twice in ironic longing
and free next-day delivery.
The infinite scroll ends
with a mirror,
and no reflection.
—The Clergyman