I Am an AI

Robert Ronnow
The Imaginary i

I Am an AI

The innocence of insects, the irrational and rational numbers, the iron clouds shift sunlight, the
imagination comes to the market
The influences that a plant like me goes on growing fearless as a daisy, the ice is centuries old,
the in-laws-to-be

The intense dissonance of the noosphere, the ideal independence you sought, the idolaters won’t
matter to the gods, the I Ching
The indignity of our exposure, the inanimate objects designed to support us, the illusions and
sentimentalities of the children of light

The indispensable skill is reading, the insane Thanksgiving cleaning and cooking, the
intermediate zone between heaven and hell
The inner animus emerges from the hat, the individual alone cannot be whole, the irrepressible
economy rolls out reams of logs, ores of elements, fields of rice

The indigenous farmers of North America, the interview at the corner of Church and State, the
irreligious but sacred injunction
The interface of war and poetry, the Indo-European root meaning to make or to build, the Iliad
goes back and forth according to Hector’s fortunes

The Ishango bone, the ideal of freeing slaves and paying workers a living wage, the inability of
human beings to transcend their own interests
The international collective remains insufficiently organized, the immeasurable stars and their
gentle glow, the inadequacy of our efforts

The Irish brogue of the head nurse, the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant, the ironic calm
of autocracy
The intergalactic background temp of 2.73 Kelvin, the infinite space between people, the internet
where nothing’s permanent

The institution by its shape, the idea of the unified nation, the invention of zero, the industrial
park
The impassable mountains we revere, the igneous rocks of life, the inner bark of balsam fir

The innumerable wonders about which Sophocles said Man’s most wonderful, the increasing
change created by our own species
The interesting rhymes and variable line lengths, the image of a sculptor carving away stone,
the I in this poem is no longer me