Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

the window’s wing I’m in my nook my ears hum weeds carried on Noah’s line in the painting, it’s incomplete, old brown greens fluttering for three hundred years and an angel’s bent elbow ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___  what is this art when centuries fly interplanetarily us knocking at our own doors all will dissolve still something calls for a gesture seeking an angel’s elbow