The truth of numbers     he said     is that they can always 
     be replaced     don’t tie yourself to the mast of arithmetic 

                don’t pick your way through 
                the boulders and bones 

     of mathematics     don’t slide and tumble head over heels 
down the gravitational slope of calculus     it’s all a dream 

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Imagine     he said     the whiteness of the empty page     imagine 
     it laid out in a valley     between trees and distant hills 

                and suddenly the surface 
                ripples     and what was once 

     the empty sheet     mocking you in your attempts to breach it 
is suddenly a lake with boats and the fevered breath of breeze

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

art is a loom     he said     a stitching up     a ravening thing 
     that leaks and blusters     so many metaphors available 

                and still you return to the sacred 
                gods     the sutured capillaries 

          your body and your mind once more harmonious  
passing on a message to your silent forebears.