Complications in your love life,
as shapes, must start with the triangle.
Alone you’re a line,
in the beginning at least, because the addition of
another line creates the letter L.
And when placed on the forehead, this sign can
become as daunting as a scarlet letter.
Port to port,
squares and rectangles
are contained. They come
to pass, by seas and oceans,
purple mountains majesty,
onto rusted tracks that have not
progressed since a golden stake
joined two separate ways of life.
At one-hundred miles an hour,
a written word is not as powerful
as a shape, a collection of shapes,
a unified image that is logistical.
Conception brought round full circle,
until repetitive nature and routine
become systematic, if not lackadaisical.
As the world turns, one side sleeps,
another wakens with intent to distribute.
And somewhere in a lost city, or suburb,
two people that have formed a triangle,
sit between a lit candle, on top of a square table.
And in the breast pocket of a man’s suit sits a
square box, holding a gold circle.
Shapes become meaningful.
And sometimes answers are explained
by shapes yet defined. But the answer
that was given at that square table
was displayed in the shape
of a tear drop.