artificial death
back 90 suns to a run through the ferns
I remain the eclipse of each sound
as I push through the soil
to the icons that run no more. my stutters
explode through the shade of the twilight
as crows destroy the machine → robots
drone in the infinite zero, where
we dwell in the pull of the Sea. the moon
shaves our brain onto the plate and layers
the first person far before the book
to form the semblance we share in the animals
who dwell in the exterior layer of our souls
beyond the skin. that is where suffering
plants and holds its fractal flower
as hope delivers its other linked body
made of the sand and the wind. the flora
and fauna and others of the earth, of each person
extend their net of the mind
to reduce the numerical coldness
of the sound. but where do the multiple
hearts plant themselves in the exterior organs
and the bodies of the stones? and of time cut down
to the green and the stop of the harvest
where the singular falls, how does it start? and
where does it go?
Copyright Credit: Roberto Harrison, "artificial death." Copyright © 2018 Roberto Harrison. Used by permission of the author for PoetryNow, a partnership between the Poetry Foundation and the WFMT Radio Network.
Source: PoetryNow (2018)