When I was old enough
to feel the bones
in my feet,
I noticed the gleam
like thousands of fish eggs
nestled in the crook
of the computer.

Only a few will survive
the summer,
only a few will survive
us – if any.

You’re like that,
or I am: observably
full, but statistically
empty. Sharp elbows
and a mouthful
of pearly teeth.
Breath like a shark,
or not quite;
but someday,

if I could download you
to a removable hard drive,
it’d be just like this:
violent and messy,
all ones and zeros
and predictions to fill in
the leftover spaces –

ejected wrong.

Eventually, we will all be
unplayable – most of the data
will decay and only a few
will survive.