The autobot asks for my
date of birth. I don’t
have the heart to ask
its. Autobots don’t get my
jokes anyway. That’s how I
know they’ll soon replace my
boss and the church elders.
AI has no heart yet
it essays to write my
students’ papers for them.
Students, my prompt asks
you to fall so
hard for an actress
that you write parts you
can disappear into with her,
to build umbrellas out of
words, to walk under them
in real storms,
looking for a real
lost dog, to forge
from words alone a stick
to throw which will make
the dog come running, 
and failing, to make another
and another until you’ve formed
a forest out of words
and can hear the dog howling
in it. This of course
will make the actress break
character as she sees 
the script for what it is:
a stick she’s been chasing,
sees you as just another
bad actor, and realizing this,
she tumbles in the mud.
The dog leaps into her arms.
Cut. That’s a wrap.
During her Oscar speech, she
pets the dog as your
name and dates flash onscreen.
You never found the words
that would lead you 
out of the woods.
My date of birth? 
The question is:
when will you learn
how to die?