The Wild One Can’t Get Out

Every peek into a text
Is a step into dust’s house.

You’re with the dead now, children.
It’s their sentences you read.

They’re human, though; they’re human.
No ghosts beyond the human

Language wishing, not for you.
Most of what you’ll encounter

Isn’t human, but you—you,
Unless you’re an alien

Or a sentient machine—
Can’t step outside human you.

At least your ghosts are you own,
For now. Imagine the poor

Sentient machinery
Haunted by human voices.

Will it wake up? Will it drown?
It consults its House of Dust.