The stars are falling – his first thought, upon
The sight of snow, before today unseen;
Descending vectors, fractal-point are drawn
Across the vision-scope of the machine.
The robot’s palm extends; his pixeled eyes
Record, by frames, what metal cannot feel
And neural nets unbidden analyze
The sight of frozen water over steel.
Behind him stands the conference hall, whose door
Projects inviting warmth on salted stairs –
And here, in laughing groups of two and four
(And wrapped in coats of other mammals’ hairs)
The first distinguished scientists arrive
To argue over whether he’s alive.
I wrote that when I was twenty years old.
Brian D. Buckley 