Though I can't see math for aftermath I can see patterns past. What happened to
your appetite, time traveler, when your dessert was not served first. There's a per
capita in every lapse but none to monetize. It's half past Planck time, let the
butterfly begin. To you who simultaneously center, there will be on average three
point five white chickens per red wheelbarrow. The fallen flying saucer returns to
its cornea, a contact lens. It's sixty-seven percent Romeo and Juliet and thirty-
three percent Bonnie and Clyde. These angles are equal and opposite so at
causality I thumb my nose. The quick and dead were virtue signaling their quick
and dead. In three dimensions three demerits, but in four it was of measure zero.
Probable but in a bubble then outside of space and time, I didn't miss the
witticism it missed me. Two molecules of hydrogen and one of oxygen, the tulips
tiptoe through the rye. I pledge allegiance to diminishing returns. You think you
know a UFO then it does something anyone might have predicted and this is the
last catastrophe that I'll abide.
Heikki Huotari wrote his first poem the morning after the major died in the adjacent bed. Since retiring from academia/mathematics he has published more than 500 poems in literary journals, including Pleiades, Florida Review and The Journal, and in six chapbooks and six collections. He has won one book prize (Star 82 Press) and two chapbook prizes (Gambling The Aisle and Survision Press). His Erdős number is two.