Incubation

The machine eats roses
and spells your name in binary.

The machine breathes like an asthmatic child.

The machine pulses in time with the tides – the tide pools glimmer with nanotubes.

The machine is here,
the machine is not.

In a world of digits,
the machine is a sign
that one should not be
so far removed;
blinking signals
that the human being
is able, if not willing.

To some,
this is an image
of the future.

To some,
this is a future
without a past.

The machine is
the human being and
the human being is
the machine.

This is the prelude
to the story of us.

Incubation