Complicating matters
synchronize in pulsing fits
of swift, gyrating patterns.
Mathematically, of course,
it's quaint indeed to feel remiss,
but sinful, aye, to clutch remorse.
And having seen these jots,
haphazard as they are, and crisp,
the world's equations find no loss.
Fecund words now gather mold,
the darkened room damp with spit,
and I embrace this curling fold.
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