Sonnet: In Fine Fettled Sleep
Between the artificial hills and the more pragmatic
wavelets, back in the analog age, mathematical proofs
proved worthless. Some angular deflections invited
trisections and later even quintisections, among other
impossible feats. Foolproof analogies calibrated our
volt-meters, reminding us of the First Law of Baseball:
There’s no Game Five after four have already been lost.
Humdrum solutions to perfectly humdrum problems.
“Das ist kein Mann!” sings Siegfried italicly, Brünnhilde
resting yet in fire-shielded sleep. What’s most remarkable
fails to surprise us any longer. All true theorums are trivial,
as she once sang. We joke about this with co-workers,
but never to the boss. And yet, keeping the door open just
a crack allows x and not-x to sweetly cohabit the room.
Hal
Halvard Johnson
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