Slicing the sphere in planes you map inside
The secret sections filled up with the forms
That gave us mind, free-hand asymmetries
Perfecting for us the beautiful inexact
That mathematic may approximate
And clue us into but may never mate
Exactly: bulb, root, fruit of the fortunate fall
That feeds us with the weeps and utter tang
Of the ovoid circles and the slipshod squares.
Triangles rounded at their corners, space
Geometrized resisting its geometry
Imperfectly, as it was meant to do —
Like stepping on a raft and rocking it
So that its ripples square the corners off
For just a second before the Mad Housewife
Soothes down the angles and bends them into curves
As worrying her secret might be known
And ours, empiric and its theory
Be one again, her crispen crystalline
Arithmetic raveled and riddled in Time,
Her rounding off and averaging out
That favors the evenses against the odds
And makes the onion, holding in our tears.
One and the same throughout the in and out.