It buzzed, bee impatient, flower curling
“Droid,” it declared handsomely, insistently
the humdrum delivery of another message
godsent, like Paul on Damascus Road,
why do you persecute me?
Somewhere in the grey goo future they predict,
Watson sneers at his descendants, wondering
how they squandered his savings,
there in that other present no stars are blinked
no shadows mirrored, there the god creators
are pondered, as solitaire is played at sixteen
petabits per second, streaming live to fleshed
creatures, brains whirring.