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Two times two equaled sixty-nine incomplete equations–all the positional subterfuge one Gemini multiplied into another, limber formulae in four dimensions because time crosses the space, the mirrors along the bed for our watching twins–look how they grin and preen into polygons, a one-night tesseract angling into twenty-three months. No surprise we met in August–our Virgo mothers looming in the ceiling shadows, their folded arms cast by blinds pushing the moon out of the way of my tendency to talk too dirty, your quiet half tasting like the salty lip of rock and sea–you called it Italy, but I knew that one was a zero–the morning we tried to finish fifty-one, you left for your place before finishing your latte, complaining about my bacon being too soggy, but I’d seen your face in the nearest mirror–you had calculated the future division, drew a straight line past it.