01 March 2010

A Finite Number of Steps

I pride myself in numbers,
stretching each digit to meet yours.

You belong to the algorithm, confined in a cubbyhole.

They never show you the placenta, the blood balloon.
They never show you the legend.

Each thought is a question, swaddled insecurity.
Eventually, formula won't be enough to satisfy.

We stretch some more: stretch, stretch, and I take pleasure
in knowing the answer has no face.

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