This is Fact!
If a quadratic equation
With real coefficients
Has complex roots
My skin, pale like my mother
We Are not used to the heat.
It weighs on us. Heavily.
Faces sheened in sweat.
And red with the slightest exertion.
Meek now, the night subsiding
We hunch our shoulders against the cold
And troop more than traipse home.
I found myself alone.
Feet aching, head spinning
Taking a moment to rest.
Suddenly and sadly
Listening to Elliot Smith On Repeat
With some written cheap significance.
The Secret History or such like.
In the Cool Blue of every summer evening.
The moon is perfect tonight.
A low golden slit
Obscured By shadow.
An eigth of itself
In autumn. The wind whipping
Dead leaves down a grey street.
Wondering if you could just walk
Backwards. Could this be undone.
And if the frost makes the flower
Then it blooms unbidden
And spills out
All terrible colour
I've tasted disappointment before,
In fact I was raised
On a fairly stready diet of it.
With the occasional splash of humility