Then again, you are made of triangles

Your eyes, lips, cheeks all joined in harmony

In your stance, a point of geometry

Isoscelism is your creed and scale

My body’s made of circles all a tangle

Circular logic travels well on me

Both body and thought housing holes to scry

Both curving softly into folds, no angle

In a triangle a circle stays put

A triangle may be encompassed, dutiful

Within a circle’s circumference, he spoke

of

an hibiscus sitting in a circle

in a triangular relief, with soot

building on the door’s lintel in New York

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