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shell

Here, inside the angle
of my hypotenuse
perfection reigns

Here, inside the privacy
of ratio gold and leaning
ever more toward limitless
I happily ignore what does not
please in favour of the guidance
that propels me here
from point to line
from pulse to spine

and put my feet up while
the computations of intelligence
exorbitantly free of
more-or-less-however-but
congress and clarify
for pure, pure pleasure of—
that’s it—for pure, pure pleasure of…

and while that participle dangles
pulling in all elements cooperative
like prawns upon a hook with bite
enough to banish fish I do not wish
to be digested by, I casually observe
the opposite, pay tribute to adjacent

and while future softly laps
against perfection of the present,
I imagine that the poetries purported
to be lost of Apuleius and those others
from the Mystery Schools were never
lost at all—‘twas me who lost connection
to the stars, who wouldn’t try new angles
in the fear that someone else’s quarter
circle might be righter than. My word!
How could I think—it doesn’t matter
now, those days are gone.

Propulsion of today assures
me there’s no end point, never was,
that everybody’s fine, their angles
right and phi. I’ll meet you here.
There is no other place.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image from http://www.allthenightlong.com at deviantart

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