brushes the chamber’s curved cheek, sketching
a path you step into. Your pocketed hand.
his device, canted, black as your jacket,
a dark nostalgia. On the table
a bonsai strains in its vessel. May you
ask him a personal question?
what sun slips through the shaded glass.
Behind the veil: your eyes lambent
as two coins. It won’t affect the test.
It’s your birthday. Your eyes like coins.
How can it not know what it is?
O providence, its owlish face.
Easy to speak of commerce atop
his own golden ziggurat, its twin
dimmed and looming. Factory, forge.
An experiment, nothing more says Tyrell,
naming the past a gift as if he’d never heard
of a mother devoured by her young.
That archeological landscape,
silent as a sphinx.
We began to recognize in them
a strange obsession —
He never names it.
Image from Blade Runner (1982)