If I Were a Poet

You tell me that to sit on a rock
is not a valid human condition,
that eyes were meant for reading code
and not for watching sunsets.

The wickedness of man is great in the earth,
and every intention of his heart is digital.

We’re both like Atlantis
when the thundering flood of night washes over us—
You at your desk;
I on my rock.
Can you swim?
I can.