Lupa

Patterned, we wander eight ways;
but follow the simplest of rules
and somehow a universe will appear,
a world in which mollusks
can reach for a random program
and run it on their shells:
all the most intricate details
of this cosmic overwhelm caught
by cells in your lungs that once powered stars,
now breathing with this intelligent everything,
silently determined - scripted - and yet…

It would take all the endless cycles
we have been through,
run over again,
to predict exactly the way
those lights are blinking in the distance,
and the soaring of my heart.

TRACE

The Last Question

Wolfram’s Language

Arrival