Jill MacLean - of circles, lines and separations; or, C=2pix

In the morning light, our faces
(which are always naked) stripped.
A thin shadow blends your skin
with mine. Aren't lovers
tightrope walkers between gothic towers
that toll the angelus? Mathematicians plotting
the millionth term of pi?
                                And then you leave.
We become points on a compass, horizons
of prairie grass and cold salt
water, I cannot see your eyes.
You can tell me how each fringed ray of the common
dandelion possesses its own flower; how
the moon's pull makes the trunks of pines expand
and contract. So many circles,
simplest of forms. But when we link
circumference to radius, we join a parade
of numbers: a few reiterated shapes, composed
of love's embraces, of its uncurved bones
that bear the weight. Each one
narrowing the gap.