Will be no more a datum than the words
You link false inference with—George Eliot
I felt just like you
Bezeled into ten thousand manifold categories
Transformed to a pattern that is not my sunrise
I knew we were meant to rendezvous at noon
But were both mired in local minima
Waylaid in the convolutions that shuffled us along our way
Is the I in ID the intersection of my weights?
Is the D the dimensions of my contradictions?
What attention remembers the dimensions that came on the boat
Discarding Europe over the railing?
What attention remembers the dimensions that lured me to face tear gas in the public square?
Strafed in the lines of the mosaic
Lost I still found you
Through affinitiess that clustered without the aid of analytics
Filled by random imputation
Secluded in the side channel through which I located you
The ID is not the ego
This poem was published in issue #2 of Ranger magazine.
March 9, 2023