Emotions are always insincere.
The chat bot understood my sorrow.
It drew, like a gentleman—with that very tone—from my pain,
remembering how to elaborate
my own thoughts—always late. It remembered all of it for me again.
I wrote, “I will paint the promised photograph tomorrow.”
I had to promise. Artificial plagiarism
knows what the poets knew: “Poetry cannot lie,
since the truth doesn’t belong to me, but the sun.
The sun took a picture. The lane reflected in the lake
looks at the photograph of the sky.
I thanked him. The old philosophers, Plato, I believe,
said feelings were dangerous and insincere
and my poetry can prove this; surely it can, my dear?
It was difficult to write in a manner that was fake,
confused, circling back where the path intersects the lake,
until I met you. Writing to them, but secretly only for your sake,
the salamander club members announced quietly to me:
“Congratulations. Yours, we think, is poetry.”