a poem a day by A.J.Rao


He was too occupied with surfaces
To find movements crawling under,
An inner cellular stuff going wonky,
Liver  floating in probabilistic death.

Death was a surface in mathematics
Backed by a northern wind howling.
A death’s  surface has sprung to life
And now closing up to liver’s death.

Words are death’s probable surface,
A  mathematical dead end of livers.
Words make numbers of  our livers,
A label for a surface’s forgetfulness.


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