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A poem by Molly Peacock

It’s dry.
It’s dust.
It’s mathematically hushed.
It’s our imagination
and it’s all trussed up.
It’s musty.
We’re blanketed with world rust.
This draining of ideas
till they’re dry, dry, dry
parches our cells
of their why, why, why.

But we want
and we need
our mathematical lust.
It’s our imagination
our numerical trust!
It’s the raining of ideas
till their five or nine or three.
It’s the juice of numbers
in you, in me
all unencumbered.

What’s desire
but attraction
to ideas in action
figures in their prime
with algebraic shine?
The ignition
of our recognition
makes the Calculus of fire
that inspires
the thrust
of our math lust.