She always speaks too little or too late. Never has lied, but always puts the truth So on the lean that touch it and it tips. She wears a blindfold as she paints her lips. You go to her when desperate and alone. Up from her navel comes the platinum word That cleaves you like a plum clean to the middle. You see your pit reflected in her riddle. Of course you wish to read these wracking limbs, Find sense among the entrails of your life. But you will be bad burned by each bright spark. Some lights are falser than an honest dark. The demon speaks. You offer nuts and dimes. The smoke goes up. You leave. The statue grins. And you will come again. You will forget. Because you do not trust the silence yet. This poem appears concurrently in Paul’s new collection from Wiseblood Books, The Locust Years.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence