and
theres
a
chance
isnt
there
that
i might write something
in
a shadow of gold leaf
on
a gutter hubcap
if
i unfold from out of bed
a
man shaped cutlery ape
in
the supermarket zoo
and
theres
a
chance
isnt
there
that
someone who may not be born yet
may
see it may read it one odd day
on
a museum-piece server
under
a leaking tin-can megacity dome
and
they might halfway feel something
and
they might catch a glimpse of something
and
maybe then write something themselves
something
better
without
tricks on loan
in
whatever bio-wired plastic AI dream
we
have
left
for
them
under
the mercury clouds
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