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