On Algorithms

The Algorithm itself is perfect
tic, tic, tic-ing away for infinity:
empty of integers,
free from the flawed intervention
of an operator fumbling,
wrenching up the equation.

A cell phone rings:
No call, no message.
I look up,
She is
black clothed tight
enough to delineate her hyperbolic curves.
She is
playing all the ringtones
on her slip of a phone.
She is
bored of them all
before beginning.
She is
still listening to this sad bird
peep out every musical algorithm it knows.

I think:
It’s like a mockingbird
The Emperor of China’s
Clockwork nightingale

That can’t chase death away.

By bonniemcclellan

Mother, poet, american ex-pat from Texas living in Northern Italy.

1 comment


    She loves
    To avoid the old tones
    By creating new ones
    Just in a smile of her ears

    She don’t care
    About their look
    As they vanish instantly
    In a move of her dress

    Boredom is just a perfume
    She likes to wear
    From time to time

    A kind of smooth torture
    Which allows her
    To feel other fairy territories

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