A Cloud Relaxes
A dimple of sound.
Pillowed water soaring.
Traversal in receptacle of sun.
Credo
I believe in Pi
The Number Almighty
Creator of heavenly girth
And in 2-Pi-i, its only Son, our Lord
Who was conceived by the Holy Sequence
Born of Convergent Series
Suffered under Pompous Pileups
Was calcified, sighed, and was married
It descended into gel
And on the complex plane
It finally got out of bed
It ascended at eleven
And is seated orthogonal to Pi,
the Number Almighty
From there it will come to fudge
The given and the rest.
I believe in the Holy Sequence
The holy mathematical church
The construction of sets
The convergence of series
The resurrection of infinity
And flies everlasting
Amen.
Behind a Thursday
To live for days in unmarked snow
in banks of frost and quiet peaks
of smeared and incandescent
haze of isolated tenure,
to fantasize in bas relief
of roaming flurried legions
well beyond the furious
fantastic seas of thunder claps
and lightning flash horizon’s
pinnacle embrace.
A blue expanse
in darkened rain,
cataclysmic episode
of rivulets in streambed
erudition spinning from
a tater tot in morning cafeteria
to steaming coffee flickering
a coded secret ambulance
down creaking lane
of longer island freedom days
to bifurcated crossbar bow
in flashpoint doodle harmony
of shaded hand in seemingly
illustrious surrender
to paranormal oddities
of plural waveform favoritism,
printing once again from
lost medieval demiurge
to scanned remarks
of virile horsemen
on parading tone expanse
in coverall exclusion paper,
draped in spraying loggerheads
of drowsy spellbound jurisprudence,
dearly bought behind a Thursday
baggage claim in carousel infringement
dots to dappled eyes and crazy tees,
depending on an intermittent
flash of liquid light.
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His
work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many
literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
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