When I am filled on love,

                     I write better.

 

We searched the oak and sky 

for qubits.

 

Quantum bits

 

They bent like ballerinas from the park trees,

suspended like the tightrope walker, Petit.

 

They exist as “maybe yes” 

and “maybe no.”

 

Not a simple bunch of 

0’s and 1’s

In the sphere of the sky. 

 

We stood beneath a four-pronged 

transistor,

swaying in autumn wind,

 

As the children in the hospital looked 

From their sick beds, attached to their sick machines. 

 

Sycamore computed at 200 seconds, 

what classical computers can at 3.1557 x 10¹¹ seconds.

 

The man on the ladder balanced in the overcast 

Climbing the paint to 

A new dimension? A nowhere?

A place we cannot 

pretend to comprehend?

 

Can you ask the questions 

and deal with the answers?

 

I daydream the statue in the sky 

floating without wire

existing in the plane 

for us to marvel

before our short lives run out.