The machine can do many things

And the poets are frankly scared that the machine,

Stocked with “tears, stars, berries, woods,”

Can now write poems

And can say, with just the right anger, “I hate Trump.”

The machine does work and that’s fine

But when the machine’s work extends to love,

We are horrified.

We are machines when we work—

But are we machines when we love?

What are humans? Machines emerging from nature,

The writing ruining the writing,

The memory of a sun blocking the memory of a moon,

The moon, human, the human comparing itself to the moon,

The trifle that is the universe sorry for its complexity and its size.

The poem unable to manifest itself in the beloved’s searching eyes.

And when, at last, the whimpering animal dies,

The touch of what feels like a metallic hand on your shoulder.





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