| each cloud a
parrot beak |
|
a tiny yellow of smoke |
| multicolored sand
like burning dice |
|
here, there, everywhere |
| things are hardly
solid |
|
compared to the eyes of stars |
| |
| up to her knees
in molecules |
|
the old woman is drowning |
| in ants, an
anesthesia of squirms |
|
and insubstantial currents |
| stuck forever,
gaining no ground |
|
the possibility sinks in |
| |
| she might not
pursue |
|
the degree in post-structuralist
art |
| in the dark
basement of Harvard |
|
the history of irrational numbers |
| is all there is,
the gabble of digits |
|
that scurry in, on, through her |
| |
| wet and wicked to
the last decimal |
|
they confront her now |
| and she has no
answer |
|
nothing to swat away |
| the
ever-advancing slew of blue |
|
the deep breath of gold and green |
| |
| which like a
chromosome |
|
knows all the right questions |
| invisible wings
unfolding |
|
she lets herself go |
| into a cloud of
excited atoms |
|
a plasma ball of helices |
| |
| now, forever, she
spins |
|
toward the navel of the
future |