Thursday, 6 February 2014

Computer thing

Contained in my hands,
Computer thing,
you sit on my lap;
square eye,
the real in my room,
heedless, imperiously
the objects I love.
Mine of information,
engine of category,
binary pool of riddles.

Can I quarrel with your circuitry?
Can I quiz your conclusions?
Can I test your operations?

Can you feel through your terminals?
Can you think through your electric borders?
Can you encounter me in person?
Are your metal synapses fed by blood from your heart?

Or are these stupid questions?

Can you tell me?

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