'The cross was not particularly heavy. Sacrifice seemed an inelegant equation. There was no algorithm for it so we left its hardwiring behind.'
'The cross was not particularly heavy. Sacrifice seemed an inelegant equation. There was no algorithm for it so we left its hardwiring behind.'
The objective was programmed into the machine
without preferences: Cross, Skull Hill. Nails.
Gethsemane was a divergence under stars,
a tinge of unsmelt olive. The weeping friends
were surplus. The kiss, unfelt, barely fulfilled
its intended direction. The cross was not particularly
heavy. Sacrifice seemed an inelegant equation.
There was no algorithm for it so we left its hardwiring
behind. No mother waited for the body.
A flock of robots undertook disposal,
as Love’s long road (a different metric)
conceived as an obliquely acute angle, went untrod.
At that moment certain possibilities were foreclosed…
Call it a world of past data left for dead. Platforms
made inaccessible. Ghosted mystery. No within.
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