How very like a machine, 
          Christmas, inventions, the earth 
understood and conquered, fragile 

as the James Webb telescope. 
          The photographs pink and alive, 
the formation of minerals adding up 

to, eventually, breath or soul. God.
          How many thousands of years 
would it take for a machine to live. 

How many gods are transplanted, 
          like cactus, full of barbs and teeth. 
Yes. We have so much to eat. 

Desires. Machines built miles up, 
          a road to space and then, atmosphere 
full of little particles, ash and bone, 

discarded wrappers from some 
          astronaut’s ice cream. Miraculous. 
No, there won’t be malfunction here. 

It’s very like a machine
          or screen, the creek bed, the cows, 
the birds and airplanes, the bombs, 

the crust and lava center. Steel 
          and manufacturing, black gold 
beneath soil. How human are you

 really. How many fires 
          have you lit. What have you built,
and where do you live: how far 

from your father: Language.