I O I

This perfectly symmetrical label
For such an asymmetrical being
Seems wonderfully mathematical,

A term of beauty and utility,
Efficient, compact, elegant, a code
To capture a wholly unholy mess.

That’s a thing about math. It’s loveliness
Is internal. It’s usefulness applies
To many unlovely phenomena

That seem prettier once you glimpse numbers.
Not all language is like this, is like math.
Languages are sloppy, in general,

As the universe, as the bipedal apes
That gave them birth. They’re asymmetrical,
Or rather, they come close to symmetry,

Close as bilateral body plans can,
But they bend. They warp. They snap. They fall short.
So where does the more honest language lie?

In the signs that outline the grace inside,
Or in the mess that mimics outer mess?
If you’re a mess, does that help you decide?