.
and collusions of profusions of geometries.
A frieze of such mathematical equations as can tease
.
themselves into believing they can feel and float
on breezes, and be put to music, made to dance,
enjoined to conjure up conditions of romance,
.
thereby financing the imagination with a currency
sufficient to convince it of its chance to change
its substance of abstraction into matter, into
.
reproducing flesh, into something with autonomy
equivalent to what we sort out of a mesh of prostituted
possibilities – theories we pay like whores to make us
.
think we’re more than odd and random bubbles in
a mind – to blink and pop, perceive that what we find
is what we’ve yearned so badly to believe there is: a God.
.
Is nothing not a question? Is everything an answer?
Do we have feet that blister on the stony path?
Is there a path? Or are we motley postulates of math?
.
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