Poetry: “Equation,” by Donald Illich
Keep this secret word
you spray inside my
bedroom. Fire, wish,
comb were abandoned
as too functional.
This is your thesaurus
with break in case of
disaster glass over it.
The numbered secret
you kept in my textbook
is so unknown
mathematicians plot
against you. How do you
figure anything out?
The equation of language
with numbers is dangerous.
Terminate the tongue
with a following beyond
the page. Let it blacken
before their vaults.
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