[A MAN FIGURES OUT THE COMPUTERISED CODE FOR THE UNIVERSE- ITS PATTERN TRANSLATES INTO THE SCORE OF A FOLK SONG I’VE FORGOTTEN THE NAME OF]
System-wired into the roots,
the shoots, the spreading
of leaves, and legs,
and the parting of teeth.
Nothing to make sense of it all
Replicate it, sure.
A circuit board of a universe,
the bare bones, the score.
Enough to birth a whole universe of wires.
Enough to make an old man hunched
in a computer’s blue light God.
But also enough to pray the bite out of his gasp,
loosen the ape into his limbs
The song, the prayer-
the answer to an infinite question
is solution to nothing.
Just a song that had already been written.
Everything expressed in sounds
so heartrendingly familiar.
“and his hands were soft.”
The old man deletes his life’s work.
Resets everything and goes outside
to sit on the curb and stare up
at the bruised pollution of sky
and watch his breath turn vapour.