No more poetry.
No more making metaphors:
hearts of romaine, chopped
and splayed on a tortilla,
half a dozen keys strewn
across the office floor—
each door forgotten.
No more everything leaking
into everything: coding coresets
in café neon, tears slipping—
must I settle for sketches
where a life used to be?
No more spinning myths
from sparse data:
seven encounters,
every text a referendum,
made and made and made and—
No more.