I swipe myself again in my rawest spot, my logical dyslexia. I cannot shape up 
            to formal reasoning any more than I can cope with the tax year.
But I have fee’d help with my taxes. As with this other, it must be some 
            deficiency in cerebral texture. I am become approximate; and, as I say 
            too often, hexed
I find this shaming; and slip into something comfortable, such as self-
             harming, when I am able. 
The crassest form of self-harm, that I have long practiced, is the poem. 
*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *
On how a fact becomes a “wandering adjective”: the facts of my being are 
            now the adjectives of this work. 
Indeed I love formal logic; it is to me a spectacle of delight, though I could 
            never do it.