Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

Phantom intelligence of the soul knows touch echoes Trace gestures prone to outcompose their originals — Springs and veils marvel at their sudden plainness, Nincompoops with tongs abandon the whole shebang. My stupefaction remains wholly blunt and untamed, That once familiar summer will ripen and destroy all Backward glances aimed at divining an elusive theme, Leaving room to fall in a series of parallel inclusions. A scholar of a hallucination taking altar in my brain Renews a languishing more terrible than perdition. The storm once more came on fast with annotations I meant to communicate but haven’t written yet — The dead hang out their songs to cure in the forest. The gates of heaven and hell are hard to tell apart.