Calculate Me

A wineglass rose was set on
A smooth surface in the gulf
In spirals she overtook
In spirals it filled, engulfed.
I saw with some displeasure
That the tetrahedral feilds
Of cold flesh pink tranparencies
Unto the dark deep yeild.
Our maths are an invention
A world for our minds
So that we aren't so lost
Within a world without design.
Haphazardly as my blood may flow
Without the maps within my self
I still lament my brittle rose
On the Continental Shelf.

I feel my means are growing numb
For thinking I am just a sum.