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Literature Text
Finally, your hand comes to rest against the eight small bones of my wrist.
I look at the ceiling and think of Fibonacci.
Algebra oscillates there, shedding its equations. They drift, these little puffs
of cottonwood; these self-sufficient catkins. Polynomials lodge beneath my tongue
and I drift, hoping to solve for x and y.
When I wake, it is rarely to an absence of variables.
I long to drop a brick into still water, if only for the ripple, and perhaps I would,
but today I am dreaming of pianos.
It's just a thing I do sometimes, when Russian cigarettes and a dog-eared McCullers
fall short of distraction.
I look at the ceiling and think of Fibonacci.
Algebra oscillates there, shedding its equations. They drift, these little puffs
of cottonwood; these self-sufficient catkins. Polynomials lodge beneath my tongue
and I drift, hoping to solve for x and y.
When I wake, it is rarely to an absence of variables.
I long to drop a brick into still water, if only for the ripple, and perhaps I would,
but today I am dreaming of pianos.
It's just a thing I do sometimes, when Russian cigarettes and a dog-eared McCullers
fall short of distraction.
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Now swearing off every single story in that damn beautiful Sad Cafe Ballad.
(Previously published in Orion Headless, 6/2/12)
(Previously published in Orion Headless, 6/2/12)
© 2012 - 2024 EmmaSloane
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I see that you've changed the line about the variables. I find now that I usually invent my own, but that's okay, I love engineering design and do it with pleasure.