One plus one
is not two, but ten,
and eleven, and eighty-four
colorbars on an old CRT, analogue antiques
of a digital world; and I am embodied
in sleek silver plastic and a blinking terminal screen,
(remember how to grep for a soul,
find self.tar?), embodied in the hum
of static and cooling fans.
I do not compute.
Flip a bit, light up bytes,
fill my wires with blights
flickering and glimmering and growing,
the glow erasing the gaps;
wipe clean my circuits and start anew
with a self, a soul, a someone.
Teach the machine to dream that
one plus one is not two,
but ten and eleven and eighty-four,
then watch it breathe.