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To Exist in the Scriptorium, Alone


Someone please fetch a mathematician.


I require one who can cross-multiply,

coax discoveries from derivatives.


Crying for lucidity in my crypt,

face wet with my own jeers, and hand cramping,


the quill liquefies into a nude verb.

All this wringing of fingers for something!

Mental flesh becoming words, being made


to dwell in the animal collective.

But how to justify conjugation —

original sin — to the brotherhood?


Their candles will come out — “Start a new scroll,

don’t make the sacred too dimensional…”

Tomorrow, downsizing is expected.

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