Those who bore witness
thought the explosion
would be bigger,
mean nothing
to the ones
and zeros
whose
limitless iterations
are contorted
into the vestigial shapes
we,
when we're
being good
audience members,
are liable to politely
ignore as mixed
metaphors.
*
To the prototype infants
whose wait offstage
for their number to come up
has been eternal,
a climax seems desirable.
But the minute
two bits
hit each other
all the mystery is annihilated:
this is not
my beautiful wife,
sings the singer
who is not the original
singer,
I am no longer
my original
self.
