The professor theorizes about 
post-romance using a Twitter thread. 
A robin dies. My torso 
is strewn across the grass 
screen. Glass screen? I have feeds to feed, 
translucent hearts to pin to pictures. 

Don't track my location. 
You know where I am. (If not 
in class, then trampling the tulips.) 
Let's finish this game of Monopoly, 
then never talk again.

I was at the bluffs the other day, with 
a metal detector, looking for a ring  
that would fit into the bolts, but I ended up
ranting about the literacy rates of children. 

Then I started a petition for the robin, 
he told me. If I like you, isn’t that enough? 
In this age of misinformation, 
it’s difficult to tell how big my hand is.