Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

Stunning as noon sun or psychosis aftermath, vase flung into the garden, but surely the porcelain was speaking and the mother, she couldn’t let it go on terrorizing the household, could she?   White noise, attention span frail as a ghost crab  clattering into surf, washed backwards into the mist  of Ansel’s photographs, synth to soften a century,    gallows clouds fusing with Osipova’s jetés in the Bolshoi.   From the green edge stepped innocence, sobs    of snow from the orchestra warm-up (first post- disaster performance) hushed by the soloing oboist,   slow whole notes, quarter notes hoof-black, O solemn comet, you bride, you confusion, you phantom.