After a hard day at work of thinking about poems,
I like to trace the isolated spaces between powerlines
and rooftops. Unpainted triangles in a milky sky,
their spell of geometry is like a prism's
lick across the skin.
At least two equal sides would be satisfying
but this town is nothing but scalene.
Full of obtuse angles.
My neighbor has a family of grackles
nesting in his broken soffiting. That fallen cable
knobs up the isosceles. Children, be quiet,
please. I'm trying to see.
I like to think that poems are always around us
the way that math is, a structure hidden
to those who don't even look,
or who don't want to see.
You know the person.
The one who won't poke a stick
into a stream or hold a pollywog?
Maybe someone has to ignore for balance.