Fugitive

" The fruit bore no ill
 yet caters man and woman's guided still
it pokes only twice; it's intercourse is foreign

yet it mourns the believer of the passionate course.

Why, why, why - all these 'why's erupt?

In the thickening deadpan day
the voices all listlessly sing in singular

the type of robot that is man

Am I a fugitive?

One breathes to tell

No not man, not man
Yet, yet all is well in the hellish Eden-land."