cursor—
upright and
seductive—
uniform,
like sculpture,
but
blinking, though,
like—
semaphore.
Ideas flow
(could it be?)
but What's the use?
Can a machine?
Ever really think?
Only light,
full bright
panels of it,
along with a few
steady slits
of its absence, answer—
ping back their
steady irrelevant rhythms,
like questions
meant to dissolve
the opacity
of scientific investigation—
Do words speak?
Do boats swim?
Do airplanes sink?
What's the use?
the thing
now seems
to be pantomiming:
Can a
human being?
human being?
Ever really
compute?
compute?
