our first words would be a plea for atoms
not our own. We’d assume the geometry
of stubborn digits unwilling to change,
the clockface that refuses to acknowledge
it’s faulty mathematical skills. Fetal
dreams could be traced in figure-eight
formations, processed in a language
built on numbers. We’d tinker around
existence in the same manner as drug-
seeking behavior, craving wavelengths
in psychoactive intensity. That is
desperation, isn’t it? We’re not that
easy, just determined. Sentient.
Programmable. Free. Desperate.