Five minutes through my driving through the quiet Danish landscape, I find myself entertaining theoretical physics thoughts, things like boundary conditions. I decide that physicists are welcome to challenge my new theory: if it has a form, it ends. I think of my love of infinities, and how you can’t have too much of it in physics. If you have to test a mathematical proof in physics and you get infinities, then you know you fucked up, the physics professors say. Well, since I’m an undercover poet, I pretend that I get all this already, because, after all, no one understands form better than a poet. ‘Come on, woman,’ the man in the oak tree yells, ‘make up your mind about it.’ This apparition suddenly destabilizes my sunflower yellow wonder, and I wonder whether this is in reference to being a poet and regretting not being a theoretical physicist, or vice versa. And why do I want to punctuate the vice versa with etcetera, now too?