Parallel lines never meet, we learned early,
ruled pages neatly lined and certain.
A comforting geometry—
belief in distance maintained,
balanced,
held.

Yet here is hyperbole,
or perhaps hyperbolic truth.
Lines are crossing now,
where once Euclid swore they could not.
A sphere, unimagined,
emerges from flat paper.

Consider infinity—
the point at which all assumptions bend,
a north pole
where separate rails find themselves joined,
astonished by their new proximity.

In Los Angeles, flash-bangs bloom among chanting bodies.
ICE sweeps through towns
like parallel lines that forget Euclid’s promise.
The president speaks of invasions,
insurrections—
hyperbolic words
pulling geometry into strange curvatures.

Tanks on trains roll into Washington,
a parade of iron hyperbole,
not parallel but converging
on this infinite absurdity.

A woman carries her papers,
though born under the same vast sky
as those who demand them.
She lives in an America where parallel lives cross,
painfully intersecting in places Euclid did not foresee.

These days are hyperbolic:
borders blur,
logic circles back,
words and worlds distorted,
a geometry of power collapsing inward,
toward some new center.

Hyperbole: three thousand arrests a day,
troops in cities,
streets where children hold identification like shields.
Truth bends sharply,
reflections in mirrors of violence and fear,
unfathomed curvature,
unbearable weight.

We once trusted the straight lines,
the comforting laws of shapes and distance.
But infinity has moved closer.
The globe curves beneath our feet;
Euclid’s comforting parallels now bend,
lines inevitably meeting at points
we had once thought unreachable.

The geometry of our times
demands that we see clearly:
in hyperbolic space,
there are no safe distances—
only lines destined eventually to cross.