Wren says

There is no magical city:
humming industry, factories
of “ohm” and “aah” and
“clang” come out from deep
(in the earth)
where ore strata move
fluidly, indifferent. Trees
form in layers, come out
from the deep earth, where
life lives, where heat is inspired
into unconscious being.

There is no tuft
or cloud that did not,
at some point, find itself
under the surface of
this dirt. This dirt,
which was gathered
by the invisible hands
of magnetism
and unloving,
emotionless gravity.

They are the voices
which tell you in the middle of the night
that you are not special
and love is chemicals telling you
that you are something,
that you are not.