from wi-phi

It's been a bit slow in the March of steno-script-etry, so I'd like to share a poem from a procedural series in which either Pi or the Fibonacci sequence dictate the word length or syllable count, know as piems or fibs respectively. This is fib number forty-one. Fibonacci and Pi are also characters, in love, and playing each other in chess, specifically, variations on Reti's end-game study of 1921, white to move and draw.

41 fib
53316291173 86267571272

There’s a mirror
called wisdom
that reflects
all
except who’s looking in
spilling
like water from a broken clay pot
clouds
drift
fingerprints on handled glass
wiped away

I want nothing of this wisdom
that I already know
that knife
that glints off of borrowed light
and cutting so goes
the shadow through throats of birds
sparks
falling
like branches being covered
by sand


l'aro