The Second Poem of the Night

(LATE, very late.)

I can tell at a glance
a poem that is bullshit
empty of the real meaning
conveying generic angst.

Here’s a tell: can your voice
be easily imitated by AI?
Are you talking about “azure”
sunsets, and “demure” descriptions
of love, fucking, you imagine.

Why NOT the fucking?
Why NOT tell about the way
you see a sweat bead just on her
slightly-sagging tit, and you
look up from that to her eyes
and see her desire meets yours.

The confidence you have
in pulling up her legs to you
pushing her to you, her eyes
only on your eyes. she opening
herself to you, wide. Everything
else falling away. Just HER.
Just YOU. Just US. Just us NOW.

Where does that leave poetry
in a world where AI can do so
much? Lie for us. Hide us.

It can’t tell us what it feels.
What it is to be at the moment
where two becomes one.
The singularity of the single
second it feels to be completely
human. To be completely alive.

That is our salvation.

— © 2024 Matthew S. Spira