O Labor, I obey your word,
not for love, but for the calendar
I held sacred, on medication.
See! There is work to be done
in the pruning, for the fragrance
past your floral imitations.
So tell me, O Labor,
does longing for sun and sweat,
does that mark me an escapist?
Or is my truer escape
your numb blue light of
deadlines and destinations?
For your cursed grind
between molars, knuckles, hours,
is a stranger to carnations.
