The Vocabulary of Shapes

I wanted to give myself to mathematics
to make this simple again.  To chart the course
of us in perfect parabolas.  To lose nothing.
My life divided by you equals one, remainder me.
As if language could ever be that precise.

Dropping words is too easy now, and these metaphors
are only the cracks in the floor between us.
You are not an equation, and I hate
to make a metaphor of you in my head
but I donít know how to hold on anymore.

I could say I am lost in the snowscape
of your silence, and pretend I do not realize
that though I called you home, you are more
than a horizon.  That math could never separate
the falling stars from snowflakes.  As if a distance

could ever be that complex.  As if, after the shower, 
a drop of water from your hair, running down
your back, could be mapped.  I would hold you
prisoner on my page, and I apologize, because we
both know I could never let go with grace.


5-10 February 2002

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