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Worms: Georg Cantor, From Halle Sanatorium, 1884 Before I pinched you into three equal parts, you tried to burrow into the creases of my cupped palm. For years after, I saw you in my mother’s auburn curls when she leaned over me for the Apostles’ Creed, in the mahogany scroll, in the F-holes of my violin, in the lemniscate my father’s finger tips traced against his temples when I ran the bow too long or too short. Your twelve hearts vibrated from the page to the strings, the bridge, across my cheek, my dry lips during a col legno, and later, when my parents thought I slept, you were the shivering flame, dripping wax from the candle that defined their moaning, and now you return, old ghost, each segment of you a succulent number in my continuum: the umbilical cord stretching through and beyond the omphalos of God. End without end. End without end. End without end. 66 ...

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