Life may be stippled apart

or stapled together,

each atom no matter how smart

not telling us whether

all things are petty, paltry,

and impenetrable

as monads or nomads,

or general as Plato’s perfectly stable

template of for instance a table.

The illusion of language is able

to alter our forms and norms,

and Deity like us is both from

and impossibly toward,

a dwindling, expanding,

yo-yoing ball of string

with little beads that tally and sing,

or a spool of yearning wishing

to become a material thing

conscious of its mission

in the vortex of the cortex

of the mind of a mathematician.

— Andrew Oerke