Blood clock of January, you’re ticking.
Ritual and bandaged, you bind.
My friend texts a picture of persimmons,
to which I respond permissions!
Cause a robot doesn’t know what fruit is.
All a robot wonders is am I allowed.
How will the robots translate our art
history of blood: dogs ripping a hog apart
on a snow just like this snow. On a day just
like this day—a January day. An elemental day.
When my blood-clock first started,
I thought war was a thing to learn
from a book. I thought by now a robot
would know fruit when it sees it, could taste
a peach and say, pick it! And that the Delaware
River would be bigger than this.
I assumed ticking was a myth.
I thought time was a carousel I was
already riding. Now I’m bleeding
on the snow, ticking like the hog.