You are not the dust storm:

    Lay a stroke down, go left, steer right

    Overwrite, ten times the speed of

    Lightly, the sun dips its dizzy head

    And another mountain slips through Aurora's legs

    Not the Machine, but the test:

    Hal folds his feeble thumbs and generates

    The legs on one more raw amphibian,

    The winning keystroke in a roomful of apes,

    The mole on a waitress.

    Not a function.  A vertical line tells:

    Hot off the breeze You and I twist
 
    Beneath a brewing sky,

    Settle among the chattering brush.

    The dust storm is rolling in,

    Bubbling up around our blurring faces,
 
    Foaming gray from the weathered teats of mountains

    To slip us through.