Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

You were dreaming again, of holding her  in the failing light of some failing stop over or another, some merely broken down  town with nothing operative but corruption.  The sun like a cavity filling with blood  on the western horizon made the ocean Pacific, the late afternoon dangerous in its willingness to reveal. Were you dreaming? The warm beer stamped a ring  on the bamboo where you left it, a green dress,  moss green, just tossed  over the cane chair, a pale dress  of cloth, abandon, something — what? Your hand  finding for itself a little game with another.  While you were dreaming she walked out to the veranda wearing your starched white shirt, rolled to the elbows, the tails down to her knees.  Her feet left small damp marks on the plank flooring. You watched as the light dyed her red — was she dreaming? In the sink, the emptied shells  of crustaceans, three chopsticks and two paper plates.  In the clay pot on the railing, she notices  a slender vine-like plant tied with twine,  staked with a chopstick.