Mathematics for poets

(Tonight's workout CD: Putumayo's Arabic Groove)

I've realized that there is an inverse proportion between my creativity and the time I have available for creative pursuits.

There are poems to be written about traincars stacked double-high and swaying their way from your hometown to mine; about the rivers and roads between us; and the April hail we conjured with our kisses a year and a month ago.

There are paintings to be done, in black and blue, of beautiful bodies wearing only emotion.

There are photos to practice, to remember the day years from now. And a photographer who will smile at you from behind the camera, because through the lens she sees you as possibility and promise. And she's not very good at flirting, otherwise.

There are thousands of novels to be dreamed. Snippets of real-life conversation to be transformed to pure fictional gold. Surely the hateful words can become great literature. What other worth have they?

But tonight, I'll read for class. I'll learn new words, like reified, noumenal and soteriological. Not the words of great literature …