Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

after Petrarch  In August, out on the veranda, it is not uncommon for a moth to fly into the light and singe its wings to dust. The lantern is so beautiful — it must. I used to watch them burn and wonder why, before I came to understand the bit about desire, how there’s no gentle landing, not when it comes to fire. Your eyes demanding mine, I’d fly into them every time despite my certain harm and your regret. You look away, and still, I seek them out. Hellbent on serving my affliction, I’m  less bothered by my own pain than your doubt. Although I burn, I haven’t perished yet.