There’s one thing artificial intelligence
will never be able to do
Poetry
How can it? Poets know there is no
standing invitation no password or key card
that opens a door to the Fountain of Fresh Phrases
or unlocks the Chest of Mighty Metaphors
we enter there clueless lucky if we
stumble on a small root or rock
that lays us out face first
on newly shoveled dirt
exposing the glint
of a gold coin
half-buried
the first sign a poem
may be worth
investigating