ELEVEN

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HYPATIA OF ALEXANDRIA

370–415

not unlike the library

you believed yourself dangerous

and you burned,

men pitiless as wire mothers

crushing your astrolabes, your hands,

the meek off inheriting this or that,

sweet heaven already astrew, friend,

it’s lonely here in the future

with all our drugs and knowing,

you brigadier,

incautiously declaring

this is a circle and this is a cone,

the stone comfort of x and y

amidst the dawning collapse

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—from BOOKOFMARTYRS.docx by Cyrus Shams