What does the invisible Cyborg know about grief

( after Ars Poetica , after Archibald MacLeish)

                                                   / A poem should be equal to: /  Not true. /  For all the history

                                                    of grief / An empty doorway and a maple leaf./

& the sum of my script of despair is a childhood-

shellfish allergy cured by proclamations written 

on a folio made from a gone mother’s skin, 

which I doubt an algorithm would know how

to anatomize. I wonder If it would know of the

pheromones that deceived me with ignoble lovers

& made my sentiments a portmanteau of ache

& regret; although it might detail the symbiotic-

culture between sunflowers & darkness, because

even a fiddle’s sound can be disguised as one from 

a saxophone. Or can’t it ??....