--- A N D Y   M O R G A N

Interesecting like tightropes
the palms of the invalid
steadied her womb.
Windmills turned briefly,
shuffling candor with a ruler
while pie r squaring indifference.
A gasp as exact as longitude
fumbled its way down the staircase,
disected figments of xy and 
graphed the indiscriminate solace
of a molecule's charge.
Point: She was only six weeks pregnant.
Counterpoint: She's still pregnant,
stomach as ooidal as ever.
To paraphrase: the fibers of belief
tangent aborted problematics-
it's a parallax and the formula is dented,
skewed by translation and limping toward z,
but patterns mean little in mazes.