a poem by Michael Hardin
In Central Park, a Shakespearean released
the first murmuration, a warping cloud
looped in eleven dimensions of string.
Inside I help my daughter with calculus,
curves and space, a constellation
of derivatives and integrals.
Each iridescent starling is an ellipsoid
with beak and feet to be calculated,
but as a scourge, they defy mathematics.
Across our continent a chattering,
Hotspur’s birds all speaking “Mortimer”
as they peck tomatoes off my vines.
“Mortimer” I cry and wave my arms,
they vanish into their wrapped dimensions.
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