The Sound Of What It Makes

computers in the computer
are really crying tonight

their tears are the liquids
of ink splatter

after ink dries and we can all
read with perfect clarity
what the words are

yet the

sound they make
may not mingle with the

courtship beneath the kingdom
of their disguises to get inside
before an email

health must remain strong
health must remain strong

or a virus will crack our eyelids
and depopulate sensations

spoken a language
dead in croaked gardens

alphabets have tumbled
weeds but no one can hear

these words splattered
by ink on a dry surface


there are too many computers
within them


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