Milo climbed up from the basement lab with a backpack full of manuals and a head full of algorithms. Shuffling off under the heavy clouds, as his eyes adjusted to the light they fell, contemptuously, on a poem someone (some communications major) had scribbled across the path to the bus stop:

This poem doesn’t rhyme,
possess simile,
alliterate, or have
a trace of metaphor.

(don’t claim dissonance
this was by accident)

This piece was written with
the intention that
tomorrow’s rain will wipe
it away forever.

Milo held his cam-phone between himself and the poem, and took its picture.

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