Banach-Stone Poetry

I’m lying. On one of those your hypotenuses made of syrup apples.
Your squared or rectilinear cakes or about triangles.
That the circles are used to keep the tight hair on the head.
But I sleep, I algebraically sleep, hatched in the x-axis-eggs and semi-open 
Set of us. Our tolling skin of clashing sarabande. The same
Bedsheet make waves that cancel out, returning the bed. We live the night
In the sleep of rectangles and ribs unknowns. But the Banach-Stone theorem Is a friend. We will meet for breakfast tomorrow morning.