Tim Love
Not all infinities are equal.
Cantor proved that in 1874. He went mad.
All your days are impossible now,
some more than others. So now you dream.
It’s that simple, you say, like going
in a sauna and watching yourself sweat,
or bodysurfing beyond the breaking dawn,
searching the horizon for the perfect wave.
It’s only the drugs, they say, the more tired
you are, the more good it’s doing.
Just go easy on cheese suppers, they add.
You ask no awkward questions, instead you wait
for fear to be humbled into destiny. They say that silence
frees meaning, that content only clouds the truth.
What truth? This isn’t a poem –
the day’s too beautiful. The coast is clear
but you daren’t leave her room because
in 1931 Gödel showed that not all truths
can be proved. He only trusted his wife’s cooking.
When she was hospitalised he starved to death.
Tim Love’s publications are a poetry pamphlet Moving Parts (HappenStance) and a story collection By all means (Nine Arches Press). He lives in Cambridge, UK. His poetry and prose have appeared in Stand, Rialto, Magma, Unthology, and elsewhere.
andotherpoems.com 