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.