(for Emmy Noether)
Proof of tree's limit: blossoms undergo prior to fragrance
Senescence and abstracted to the lab without shell and nest
Sparrow embryos appear indistinguishable from geckos.
I cannot be reached regardless of names etched on ceramic
Shards, my afternoons devoted to the intricately woven
Xiuyan jade mask, perfect square beads drowning out the
Dead. If the mathematician's world at each instant dies
And is reborn why can't I rebirth the blue and wind-blue
Sprawl of solar plexus radiating out to posture? Pressure
Applied to forehead releases kings traversed by nudes.
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.