Writing for a Certain Future

If it all turns into numbers and sequences
Of numbers and problem-solving algorithms,
If the challenging mountain here or the shore,
Plain as day creeping higher and higher up
That mountain are turned into equations
Understood by mathematical surveyors
Researching the old outmoded species
Whose words and other expressive vanities
Are washed away in numbered syncopation,
They will say they understand blue and blues
Without the word Blue, only magical starts,
Magical stops, a continuous colorless Morse code,
They will say they understand the moon’s cast
In the north, its different cast at the equator,
Its cast in the southern zones not as tempers
Of a mighty borrowed light but as peerless punctuations
Of a Pythagorean sentence, I might still write,
We might still give a go at the mathematically unattainable,
At the numberless momentousness of it all.

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