“A mathematical proof must be
                      perspicuous.” 

                                    –       Ludwig Wittgenstein 

When it comes to mathematics (for me)
nothing ever adds up; one & one
are never one, & seldom
even two.
                    Then I meet you,
& everything’s Euclidean—your body
creating lines Copernicus could not
begin to explain; my eyes align—
my hands co-orbital—you are
art begging ekphrasis.
                                          My body drafts
a sympathetic response; fight or flight for
dominance.  You say it drives you wild
when I take control (redaction: to do what you say).
I smirk.  I say
                          the lesser lights of our world are (but)
adornment: glint & glimmer in the sheen, sweat
tracing caramelized curves, stretching, unfolding
against me; your figure is in bloom.  Mocha & peony
pleading I speak in the soft, pink tongues of nature,
of science, of sacred geometry.
                                                         This is something
I understand:  We are better when we are not
parallel—we are parasympathetic in that alignment; but we are
ever-expanding, exponential, existential bell curves
in perpendicular space—we are
perfection at right & wrong
angles—              
                    you in reverse:  muscles between shoulder blades rending
                         my mind in bed with discrete mathematics; you exhale &

                    your back goes supine in the nebula of my chest, my mouth
                         resting in that liminal space at your neck, lips brushing ear,
                               two sets of eyes contemplating stars

                    until you are folding—a salutation to those suns, my hands on hips
                          bearing weight of impious friction.  Diction comes apart

                    on my tongue—we eclipse; eye to eye but you’re shooting/falling away,
                           hands & arms a disappearing act against the floor behind an hourglass,

                     your legs like rays spreading the heavens wide before closing the distance
                           behind my neck, the arc of your backside longing, resting, in my arms until

you become release; I become a wreck of joy & freedom, heart & mind
freed from every obtuse explanation–expectation–& this….this is…
 
                                                               This is both the truth & proof:  Entropy as natural state
                                                                      but for now, if only now, we are

                                                                                                                                    this.                                                                                   
                                             
This.