Wednesday, February 07, 2001

an Anti-Poem

Because we must prepare some sort of clearing
Where the new numbers may safely disembark
We work all night, sometimes nervously peering
Up, into the indivisible dark.

The numbers, we are told, will not resemble
Ideas of sets of oranges or curves.
We must not stand too close when they assemble;
The merest whiff of us would bruise their nerves.

We cannot guess what systems of equations
Encompass them; we must not think we know.
We will be awed. We will have reservations.
The numbers, though, oblivious, will grow...

Grow more complex, more beautiful, each second--
Though, given what they are, this can't be reckoned.

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