I see her leg and his leg connecting,
of equal altitude from my base view.
How we three link end to end, affecting
each vertex, their passion seems to eschew.
Only I, isolated, can recall
Euclid drawing on circles’ theory,
so I circle our perimeter, fall
to my knees, wonder if Heron’s weary
of how spurned partners always calculate
areas where lovers lay, the simplex—
as we crawl ever closer—dark as hate.
I pray Delaunay guides me to convex
hulls of their throats. My scalpel, as they sleep,
will bisect their carotids, swift and deep.
Roger Armbrust
February 15, 2008
