but what sweet tangles of curves and tangents, and imaginary, radical, and irrational numbers bubble forth from the living of the questions of that bio-algebra.
Between her and me there was a table, on the table a glass. The chapped skin of her elbows touched the shining surface In which the contour of shade under her armpit was reflected. A drop of sweat thickened over her wavy lip. And the space between her and me fractionalized itself infinitely Buzzing with pennate Eleatic arrows. Not a year, not a hundred years of journey would exhaust it. Had I overturned the table what would we have accomplished. That act, a non-act, always no more than potential Like the attempt to penetrate water, wood, minerals. But she, too, looked at me as if I were a ring of Saturn And knew I was aware that no one attains. Thus were affirmed humanness, tenderness.
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but what sweet tangles of curves and tangents, and imaginary, radical, and irrational numbers bubble forth from the living of the questions of that bio-algebra.
hail the court of miracles!
VIII of Bobo's Metamorphosis
by Czeslaw Milosz
Between her and me there was a table, on the table a glass.
The chapped skin of her elbows touched the shining surface
In which the contour of shade under her armpit was reflected.
A drop of sweat thickened over her wavy lip.
And the space between her and me fractionalized itself infinitely
Buzzing with pennate Eleatic arrows.
Not a year, not a hundred years of journey would exhaust it.
Had I overturned the table what would we have accomplished.
That act, a non-act, always no more than potential
Like the attempt to penetrate water, wood, minerals.
But she, too, looked at me as if I were a ring of Saturn
And knew I was aware that no one attains.
Thus were affirmed humanness, tenderness.
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