Turn by Allyson Lima
The fact of rotting leaves
and hardened blackberries.
Open and without sides I empty
into spaces folding back and back
all touching breaking apart
clusters of berries on branches
infinite seeds making and remaking
mysterious math of numbered days.
Sweet crumbs by Richard Lorr
The mathematician stood by the door,
Eating cake. Under the chair
Catching the falling crumbs,
Adding them to his collection, the
Dog refuses to divide them with his
Doggie friends, counting on them to
Understand the root of his
Exponential pleasure. Some do.
You: encyclopedia of binaries.
Off-On. On-Off. Zero-One. Collected,
your DNA surrenders to the gauntlet. On.
Off. How many couples made a you?
Three billion of these base pairs ladder up identity.
In cloud banks of windowless buildings
you’re shelved like patterned wallpaper.
Endless rolls repeat off on: enough slight
variation to excise you from your tribe. Off. On.
Police will say all choice is binary, so during
a street demonstration, your image gets combed out.
On off blizzards of pixels cull your face from the
anthem crowd. Bent,
you clutch your head
to stanch another gauntlet. Truncheons
economize interrogation. Confession is relief
for everyone. Truth. Lie. On. Off. Binary,
you cried at birth. A swarm of four base pairs
jostle into line along a billions loaded spool
composing you: musical chairs more so than
music of the spheres, it circling from the time
of Socrates. He too thought at tangent to authority.
Calm or not, he drank the state’s solution.
your ears ring in a spinning orbit slowed by
thrust-out hands grabbing for the walls. Struck.
Blackness yanks a sack on your head.
Off, your carcass bounces once against cement.