Even though she has set down The unwieldy entablature And walked back into her life, Her posture, Her disheveled intricate coiffure, Betray preoccupation. Preparing dinner, she slices The fluted celery stalk into drums, The mushrooms into ionic capitals. She is too old to be young anymore, The moonlight petrifies. She has left beauty behind, a ruined porch. It leaves her lightheaded, Being freed from history, that long mis- Understanding.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence