There’s a parallelogram against

the cool blue of the sky this evening,

a mathematics class suspended mid-air.

Wings beating

in sync, morphing into a rhombus,

a rectangle, a square — until it twists into

a white hyperbolic parabloid. When I was eleven,

I never quite understood the need for geometry.

I didn’t want to be an architect. A dreamer

does not build

from concrete, needs no solid edifice; an

imaginary castle must have no symmetry.

After all, beauty lies in abstractions.

Tonight, as I watch the birds take on

definite forms I recognize, I come to realize

with a pang in my heart that art

can exist in lines, just no boundaries


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