“Personal Problem,” the title poem from Brendan Joyce’s new collection, cuts through capital’s abstractions to reveal that “the richest man alive is just / foodstuff and a bit of water.”

Poet Brendan Joyce’s “Use Value” conjures a nightmare future made in the image of Jeff Bezos’s most deranged fantasies: “a moon colony for overachieving / oligarchs.”

The breeze through the sycamore trees’ sickly leaves / that screams worsening working conditions