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.