Machines offer it—flesh and blood
Poets, too. Go back to red doc >,
If not much earlier, and look
How the writer seizes on text
The digits accidentally,
Serendipitously compose.
It’s so hard to leave out a gem
Of the unintended, mistakes
God and the world gift through spell check.
In an email I write, I lose
You so much today, Kaveh
Akbar wrote, then wrote it into
A poem in a book he published
The New Yorker reviewed and took
As the last lines of the review.
Poets are tramps for any muse,
Doesn’t have to be a goddess
Or a genius worm in the head.
Could be a spouse spirit-writing,
Could be a planchette, torn-up words
From overlaid subway adverts,
Could be a slip of the keyboard
Or a smartphone’s autocorrect.
This is not stupid. Poets sense
Mimesis needs an accident.
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