Sonnet #385

 If feet could explain the work they do

To hands who explain the work they do

To elbows who explain the work they do

To livers who explain the work they do

To you, the economy would make sense

But it wouldn’t be accurate. Every prince

In their beating heart dreams of settlements

Beyond the borders of time, an echoing lens

Measured in rings around the thumb

Where the callouses grow and grow numb

And only machines can capture all the dumb

That we regenerate believing we know someone

And machines will build machines to explain

Why we will never know anything again