Insight

The little cogs and fly-wheels
break through, or we broke
in, or somehow they’re exposed,
pulsing gutly in nakedness,
and the daemon known as
‘algorithm’ is visible, chanting
in strange, artificial languages,
where such things have heft.


Change metastisizes here,
real change, bits and words in
Antikythera’s mechanism,
weighing the future, silent
and fleeting and a koan
of significant impermanence.

I owe myself to the daemon
as much as to my parents;
perhaps it, too, cradled me
at night in the ICU.