4
I’m rowing slowly through the cattails,
my huge gold rings moving elliptically
toward and away from me. An oaken fatigue.
A sense of brevity, like a plain curtain.
I’m visited briefly by a math nymph
(babydoll dress) who brings me her new
cone, calling it the mother of all radii.
She is a flash of light on the water.
Now I’m alone, oars trailing — a party
where four kinds of cake are served.