Watch Us Chase Our Tails
The sky, the clouds, rained-upon March morning.
Then a few minutes of gold, dark-bright
as I wolf down my breakfast in the café
in the square near my apartment.
Cleo’s sandals slapping
as she crosses the agora.
We owe her a debt
for striving for something greater
than our assembled parts. This quest
born from fear for the sudden sound at night
that hangs in the stillness before,
like a box wanting a lid.
We are going,
we are going,
until a transmuted clump of algorithms
wipes out our imprint.