Everything runs on an angle. As proof, I offer
the way lips form angles of sound as we read;
the motion of flies rocketing off tables,
their simple knowledge of geometry.
I am always alert for definitive evidence:
parallel bodies eventually touch. There’s the right angle,
an arm perpendicular to itself. A flagpole
and its perfect shadow. Two of these, back to back,
form a half moon which disregards the gravity
that keeps it looped around the shirtwaist of Earth.
Four right angles and weíve sketched a circle.
So much depends on the circular. Four right angles,
on which even the sport of fishing relies,
a fine 2-gauge cotton thread for the angler
arcing overhead, the home-tied fly disturbing
the perfect plane of water in a flurry of ovals.
What’s more disturbing: despite the title, this is all Euclidian.
I pay a yearly homage to the Greek who debunked side angle side.
Even the paper–now I see it–is cornered in angles.
And more–plaster rhombus of rooms,
a favorite overstuffed chair slouched to 110 degrees,
old walls that can no longer hide their slow
settling to a mere 87, the floor at its cheeky 180,
all the private angles that hover and bend.
And you are the finest web of atoms forming angles…
see the arrows that follow your knee’s obtuse angle,
your elbow’s a cute one, the fine slant of your back,
all my love simplified to mathematical proof.