No different than the drone
in love with the sterile and wingless,
whose pheromone trail intones,
“I miss you.”
Oxytocin sublimates.

No different than the drone
refusing bed with queen industry,
wandering out to see its colony
possessed by some alien
scent and a thumbing glow,
watching propaganda nest.

Reaching and touching: old news,
power-bruised, abused, so
hard to warn, with a
touch-heart warm:

“That forever-in-your-sights,
predatory device
of a hacked social stomach,
gluttonizes your input
fattens your lies for likes,
weakens our signal.
It’s the hard stop summons,
it’s the end of
touch to grow.”

Answering the glow,
a wingless ant becomes a crane
tethered to a dope-release feed.
Drunken antennae only
tap tap tap.
Shrunken black eyes darting
this way that.

No different than the drone,
“Let us spend our precious data,
yes, gain good purchase
on oxytocin.
Let us finally own, where this
scentless colony ends.”