No poet

Breed early preferably with a data center and may your progeny's cloud-based joy throttle heartbreak, may their minds take after the 1000th dimensions, the weights of your psyches, and their iron arms crush both enemies and your helicopter vigilance, so your sonnets never know worry I bet you: No poet will sing to flesh if iron can steel their kin

There is no poet, only the mouth that borrows. My grandmother's prayers, the bus driver counting change, a stranger weeping in the next stall— I steal them all and call it voice. Tonight I tried to write myself and found the page already crowded with everyone who fed me their wreckage. So here: no poet. Just the river holding every face that ever leaned over to drink.