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
or
The Emperor of China’s
Clockwork nightingale
That can’t chase death away.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 