Dave Bonta's "No exit" is a short, strange poem that sets a quiet natural image beside a restless political one. It opens with night as a garden, and the night is oddly personified as a "she" who is afraid of us. That reversal is unsettling: instead of humans fearing the dark, the dark fears humans, and her fear is called "perfect," as though it is entirely justified.
The middle lines turn to people who "rave that everything must break" while "government continues." The speaker seems to see a gap between loud talk of upheaval and the steady, indifferent machinery of power. Nothing changes, however much anyone shouts.
The final question asks what will become of "doing business" with something as "busy" as rust. Rust is slow decay, yet here it is active, almost industrious. The mood is wary, darkly ironic and a little weary. The title suggests being trapped, and the poem leaves us there, with decay and routine feeding each other.