Pi Shapes An Irrational Number
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The clouds do a Buñuel.
Now the night bleeds into blindness;
now it sees more than it may
tolerate on the day it will recall
cast away underpants, sweating
held fresh in a perfume-bottle,
scent of a shattered vial gone stale
on a hoary carpet.
Splashed in that momentary bleeding
we stand midst the jettisoned picnic,
the cabin for lovemaking behind us,
your figure inks the smoke sign
rising from a deceased bonfire.
Sky, will your memory keep us safe?
Now the night bleeds into blindness;
now it sees more than it may
tolerate on the day it will recall
cast away underpants, sweating
held fresh in a perfume-bottle,
scent of a shattered vial gone stale
on a hoary carpet.
Splashed in that momentary bleeding
we stand midst the jettisoned picnic,
the cabin for lovemaking behind us,
your figure inks the smoke sign
rising from a deceased bonfire.
Sky, will your memory keep us safe?
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