04 The Real Theory Of Relativity
Poem By Lori Boulard
In the hours before dawn I like to eavesdrop.
Muffled by their worn leather bindings,
the writers converse-
Shakespeare pleads a play
Marx will have none of it
Confucius murmurs a truce, lost
amid the gossip in Periodicals.
Unencumbered by weather or phases
of moon, hypotheses and antitheses
bounce and rebound
off the cold, flat walls next to the stairs.
Morning lifts a hand, hushing
their voices into proper behavior.
'I hear that poet has a new one out, '
whispers Wordsworth, drifting off to sleep.
Einstein rises from his slouch in the corner.
'New is relative.'