Which Would Be Less Worse—to Forget Just Words or Just Forget?

Mind, inventor of meaning,
Invented miasma, which
Means something like mind itself,

A kind of cloud attaching
Itself to things, without them
Knowing this, invisibly,

But with grim consequences.
The essays are poetry.
The poetry makes essays.

The world’s still world but with cloud,
A cloud with its own meanings,
Its own menace, its own plagues

Attached. Words fly in and out
Of mind, like germs on the wind.
Well, but of course. Mind made them.

They made mind, and together
Mind and language made likeness.
The animals are tired, now.

No more miasma for them.
It will be a rest when bots
And blindingly bright AI

Can give mind their attention,
All the attention it needs,
And never mind miasma.