photo by Bert Kaufmann
There is one chair, but only two owls. Biologically, two owls equal the feeling of loss equals two bottom-dwelling fish.
Mathematically speaking, you are moving upward and downward at all times, and backwards, floating like a mirror.
Your frowning face behind the hair behind the back of the head. Your hair bursting from behind your mouth.
Here is an order you may not have considered: there is you, then there is not you, then there is not not you, etc. This is in the brain.
In the brain is the church. In the church is the mother and father. In the mother and father is the organs. In the organs is the blood, mathematically speaking.
A magpie, a cormorant, and a nightjar, all through the hole in the stomach.
The idea of bus. The idea of flight, mouths. The idea of meaning.
Rainwater sliding up the glass is a rule. So is thinking about sex, coats. A relevant diet, rich in whole numbers.
Mathematically speaking, magnets cannot fall in love. And we cannot speak. There is a gigantic wall of electrons directly between us.
Mathematically speaking, inside of mice there are tiny little vents, little moth spewing out.
The forest folding unto itself is a rule. Trees with over-ripened paws. The blood of leaves all over.
Fluids have tension, as well as bodies have tension. Tension is a thing that exists perpetually, as well as horizontally.
Place these in an order: a magpie, a brain, a sea, an airplane, an organ, a brain.
Essential feelings: birdness, bursting, billowing.
Mathematically speaking, the brain must exist in disingenuous abstraction. The brain must be right around the darker corner, and speak in a clear, unidentifiable accent.
Timothy Wojcik lives in Brooklyn, NY, but is originally from Houston, TX. These poems are part of a larger collection titled Mathematics. You can read other poems from the collection in Caketrain, Heavy Feather Review, and Hobart. Visit him at tymwojcik.tumblr.com.