Albert Einstein

In one page of his mind, the ink
runs deep, equations worn
by constant rewriting are
cut by the creases of them
folded away and tucked in
one of the desk drawers of his
imagination. Some dreams
you carry, some carry you.
One corner, one corner of
this page no one knows about,
the ink is blurred — in some
moment, quiet and alone,
Albert Einstein cried, strangely
mortal — we don’t know why.