I drove at 80 amidst the teeming traffic

enveloped in a cloud of numbers as I

calculated without thought the

relative speeds and distances both

fore and aft, the gaps and flow of a

hundred vehicles, the

computational nimbus within which I

heard new harmonies in Couperin,

caught the current of my day’s work,

perhaps perceived the

outliers of this poem and made the

beginnings of a shopping list.

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