by David Davis

Perhaps he lived an artificial life.
He felt the circuits glow beneath his skin
and studied programs to arouse his wife:
what words to say and how to help begin
their simulated melding on a bed
that might be there or might be made of dreams.
Perhaps the fiery wiring in his head
was changing what it is to what it seems.
He couldn’t tell; his fuzzy logic lacked
the certainty of silicon and steel.
No upgrade could reverse the basic fact
that this is what his brain told him was real:
existence lived by dull organic rules
built from carbon, using faulty tools.