Tell me not that most real numbers

dare to transcend reason with their

lingering appendages. The absolute

becomes immaterial under the steel

gaze of high proof, lost in the embrace

of a psilocybin heart. These emotional

scars may never be purely expressed

as the ratio of two integers, no, but

raised from the repetitive beyond by

séance and trance. Robert Lowell will

be hell, but I, too, ache with this need

to generate the divine within me, struck

together as the click of flint and steel

in infinite series. Dear one, if you only

understood the digits of the inner fire,

I might hold you still, floating gently in

the stinging green salt of Monte Carlo.

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