Let x equal the cold.
- Anthony Hopkins in Proof (2005)
The mathematicians with half-lives are checking your proof
talking their way through the axioms on Knife's Edge
the conjectures at Herring Cove
the theorems along the Mohawk,
shepherding you past the rentals, the SROs, condos, two-families;
the faces in the windows of your landscapes
reflecting the ambiguity of your words.
Your still lifes passed the rigor of bicycle days,
coaster brakes waiting behind package stores,
ifs, ands, and buts triangulating the derivatives
barely visible through the brushstrokes,
armatures buckling under symbols shape-shifting with the wait staff,
your chalk drawn and ready.
You check for the rewrite; launch into the monologue.
The amphitheater begins to fill with iterations of the same person.
A stranger. You were told this would happen.
