Leave Beatrice to her minivan
and casseroles. Forget lost

loves, lose the interminable
brooding and listen to this electric

genius of angst reverse the negative
capability curve of La belle dame sans

merci, watch it knock out
a reality script for The Faerie

Queene faster than you can regret
the love note penned at midnight

to the last well-read beauty. It
clanks along a Wordsworthian

footpath, enjambing CGed larks’
unrequited warblings, unfazed

by last night’s bender of poesy
and voltage, then straddles Dylan’s stool

at the White Horse, matching glass
for glass, then lopes the line down

West Eleventh to Pete’s to repeat.
Any given day, it’ll pass the Turing

Test with nuanced weeping, precise yet
unhindered by inefficient yearning. Pure

electric courses its silicon like the west
wind to fan lost loves in teraflops, as you

and I, dear flesh and blood, are freed
from our futile, imaginary ruin.