In the noise of everyday things, comes speech
of the kind that tries to talk in repeated motion;
mulch to the grounds of thought,
the grist and grind of machines on the whir.
They whisper in your dreams and, when you wake,
have cleaned the dishes, washed the clothes,
carried you down past canal boats and cars,
past mechanism, into a digital age.
Where things hum an alien, unknowable language
of binary and buzz.