There’s a parallelogram against
the cool blue of the sky this evening,
a mathematics class suspended mid-air.
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