SEVEN YEAR CIRCUIT A

Our girlhood was spaced apart
by layoffs. A man thought he died
and long patio chairs
returned to the basement.
I goodbyed the foreclosed stoop.

By staging the correct loop of deeds
he, electrically, was revived. I knew
my absolute self in the sliding
glass, Mary in a cradle beside. In words
I made the future. I could have lied.

__

BUT IS THIS WORK COMPUTATIONAL?             

My system is different
than his systems.

He flatters the closed
circuit, what falls

feeds roots, eights among his
lovely electrical shapes.

My wakelight is start, stop,
a moon circle fought

in a horseshoe's trace.
It is not a biological lacing;

I was built by the world
to open.

__

On "Seven Year Circuit A": The brain is a strange archive. Maybe especially in our current technological moment, when so much is surveilled, recorded, and reproducible. Memory can become a type of self-surveillance: cataloged reels that can be rewound and watched over for clues.

On"But Is This Work Computational?": A contributing origin: over Skype, three men and a dog interviewed me for a digital humanities gig. I could only see the dog's ears but his man was unimpressed.