Abstract
SANDRA LIM | 127 Bent Lyre Sandra Lim poetry I would bring out the co≠ee, bread and butter, salt, and a piece of fruit. The pigeons ran around in berserk patterns outside. Our warm, clandestine complicity had the force of a new actuality. Many mornings, we drank our co≠ee without any pleasantries. At the table, along an axis of real and imaginary numbers, you made your notes. I loved how true the imaginary numbers could be; it was much more interesting than life—you could have company and you could have loneliness in it. Your hardness and your terrifying honesty could be bitter, but I forgave the bitterness. Next to all that, my words to you must have the ring of false contrition; but like a lack of medicine or money, they are sincere. ...
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