The mathematics beneath
every sports result and leaf,
is at the heart of my intelligence.
Let the formal poem commence!
A sly reminder of every belief,
whether I vote, or write, or love.
Fractions laughing below,
sums sighing above.
The beautiful is mathematical.
I am musical and emotional.
But mathematical? Can I manage this?
I fear the meditation on exactitude
is a false bliss. Is every harmony
this cold that it cannot grow old?
Is there something perspective
and counting will not know?
Did I forget the pulses in the pause?
What of the tragedy of Wagner or Poe?
The fraying of me. My memory of you.
That smile I had. Where did it go?