In real life, my strangeness is my own hell.
Deaf with remorse: the shrieks of memory
are an ancient violin, while through every catacomb
radioactive blood scans unseen ravines of fear.
Death on the red planet is not death.
On the red planet it is when you don’t move.
But when you come near, it’s time for us
to roll over and be dreamy. The sun blows
while we dream, making love. There are
pomegranates on the moon, I said. I was a poet
only in bed, you said. My moon. And I’m your
statue, my strangeness gone. Moon profane
with miracle, I kiss your white pit, your faithful teeth,
your honest skin, your gleaming stone. The first time
we touch exists only in our hearts. Your light kills.
Artificial Intelligence-Generated Poetry from a Dataset of Willis Barnstone’s Sonnets (Programmed and Collated by Bilal Shaw & Tony Barnstone)
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