Our ghosts, our machines
Poem by Dana Smith
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.
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