NaPoWriMo - 2019 #25 - Copenhagen


All things to all men the wave-function coming
and she is sitting, plain blue dresses on bentwood chairs,
every weekday for seven years...
inspecting such light rays as pass,
sipping gloss coffee, black from cups,
sipping flesh orange chilled juice from glasses—
in summer/winter, day/night according;
the features of a world which comes and goes

but lies and says it's real for all of that.
The notepad by her hand
is spiral, tattered, feint-lined, closed—
she filled the pages up with maths so long ago
and pressed them all to heart.  She does not read
reminders of whole lives' obsessing
each sheet pressed flat through a glass clearly
to the eyes of mind.  Inhaling brown coffee pheromones, she finds

a choice of landscapes from those
who trod this way before.  Heisenberg: all things
to things which are not looking,
and Schroedinger who makes the functions wave
but not to choose which way to go—
until they suddenly do.  Which inspires

Max Born to pronounce that everything's a chance,
that probabilities will dance around the dice,
and Einstein to scowl and mutter something Germanic.

And thus goes her life, until one afternoon a clarity,
a glimpse and... and... barely daring breathe,
she sidles, oblique, through systems
of huge mathematical brackets,
unzipping reality's jeans, easing it out of its jacket,
sliding one hand towards the hint,
the suggestion; while
drinking one last black coffee —v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y—
and finally smiles the smile.

It took a while, but here she is
at the very edge.
She writes a line of symbols
on the cover of the book.
Underlines it.
Then drops the empty orange glass onto the table
pays with Euros/Kroner/Schillings/Marks
and artfully carved squares of bone; decides to go home,
to keep it secret, tell literally everyone she knows,
and leaves in all directions.