It is too easy to cross signals.

No gesture, nuance lost. We are

reduced to 1s and 0s. A code that translates.

Your missives arrive soft. The gentle language of the familiar.

I walk the beach and think of it. Options, equations,

mathematical, Plato’s Meno, I draw it out.

The shapes orderly, neat - none seem to apply.

Pythagorus would know. Have me sliding quick

down those 90 degree angles, a neat isosceles of love,

measured, so precise. We would know which line comes next.

Language codified. Andante or allegro, each accent in its place.

Diminuendo, some days softer than others.

Others, a consonance of sounds.

How we lose ourselves in philosophy, in mathematics,

how we fall to receives such letters that chime, a real peale of changes.