The Insect

Sound of wings like the subtle blades
of fans twirling above the metal shell
worn by an artifical brain: a fly
circles her finger, though it is not

Her finger, only the motion of data
along wires tied to the rivers of her
nerves, which are hers, which have
overflowed their banks in a golden dream.

The fly lands. His wings, thin as
soap-film, baroque as circuits, spread
wide, a supplication to her. His
eyes find hers, which are not hers,

and the insect’s eyes are weary
diamonds, dividing within themselves
into mirrored archways, opening
thousandfold to deeps that are not his.

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