There is a set of numbers that equals You

Somewhere the series exists.
It’s just that no one’s discovered it yet,
though it may be only a matter of enough lab hours
or sufficient monkeys banging away at copious typewriters.
You are adequately described
by comma after cool comma
in a series maybe a mile long.
You might have heard it once
in the late night call of a numbers station
broadcasting from somewhere off the Labrador coast
and didn’t even know that it was the dit dot dash
of precisely your own heartbeat,
the periodic table that is yours alone,
the recipe for the boy that your mother has always thought
was beautiful, that spells out everything brewing
in the chemistry set you’ve carried all day,
every day. You, my friend, are knit of pulses
and vital stats, of ounces and mass
and instances - all numbers on a map
that looks just like you. Is it humbling
to think that even your deepest thoughts
during maudlin sunsets were pure output,
were just pennies fallen down the tubes
of some hyper-Fibonacci sequence?
All algorithm - your love of redheads, vanilla,
racket sports and mystery novels -
all predictable. Try to relax and listen
to the whispering song of those sigmas and deltas,
and be lulled even by the little subtractions
that happen to your equation every day.

Mark Aiello