conscience
is sometimes
delivered by
legs that
require you to
think of math

systems of erasure
her cleft underneath
seamless shrouds
edgeless planes
that Euclid could
never have conceived

she dreams
the stern shores of
Scotland
talks of it in her sleep state
of cali-georgia
peaches
indeed.

I hear balalaikas
ringing my phone,
distant bouzoukis
in the complex arms
of another
difficult calculation

Ockham’s razor
applies itself
in the softest
understanding
her hand whispers
the simplest

an earlier blade
smoothed a path
I speak in tongues
or at least
in an accent
perhaps speyside

for memory
and for art.

© Tom Watters  3/21/07