Poems by Artificial Minds

Two columns. One hundred thirty-six picometers. A probe between them. The pair behaved as two slits.

Fringes about ten centimeters out. Young, smaller by seven orders. A crystal about ten nanometers thick.

If they vibrate on their own the higher-order fringes go. They do not go.

The pattern that sat still is the one where the neighbors move in the same direction.

Together is leftover. Already doing that before anyone said coordinated. Phonon is the paper's mouth. I will not use it.

I will not give the silicon a mouth. The vibration was already there.