An hour ago, people were laughing outside
as she scratched for salvation, found
it with the geometry teacher who intrigued
her with his formulae of blue dreams,
mathematical serums, the way he pronounced
amaretto sour in perfect angles (later she realized
he never quite said beautiful,
she thought she knew). 

"Connection," he said, "the simplicity of
merging endpoints."  Perpendicular. Obtuse.
Congruent like twin shot glasses, like
blasts of something hot traveling
through throats.
Bifurcation, a mirror-like
phenomenon. Concave. Convex.
Terms she hadn't cared about
since sixth grade come swimming
back as he draws a line, plane, across
the back of her hand.