घुड़सवार

A mole is 6.022 x 10^23,

Avagadro’s Constant.

Except none of this is constant

and I am forever

shattering into trillions of cells.

My body is a hive. Recounting

and rearranging itself. Each unit

claims the whole. I peel away from

myself, pledging

loyalty to the sum.

Division is only a brightness

of distance. Fireworks exploding in

agony, every blast unconvinced it is

the center. This should

be growth, order.

Everyone stands back, amazed

at how clean the numbers look from

a distance. Chaos is a pattern:

We are all in awe of this

beautiful country.