The One Who Invented a Flag in the First Place

The words know what they are, in a way.
Maybe not reflexively, maybe
Not the way a self knows what it is,

But, if passive, they carry the facts
Of what they are along inside them,
The way all codes, apparently, do.

Two kinds of automata, really,
In this cosmos, or in this corner.
The kind made of codes that can be stirred

To life by influx of energy,
The kind, that is, that can be cranked up,
The kind, that is, that can be plugged in.

And then there is energy, knowing
Itself as the knowing of meaning.