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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