Pulse

We can fly to the heaven's breath with steel tongs of soar
and touch the tongue on the ocean's floor
in a iron from artificially alive with monitoring sensors.

Or gauge the air for ever particle and atom it possess
probe the stars with glassy scope of piercing vision,
but it all points and is recorded by a numb needle,
no nerves to inhale what beats it its is image.

In the automaton glory of pristine computation
all the beauty is absorbed as fact without pulse,
which a single tear or smile can record in detail never forgotten.