Sphere and cylinder,
skeleton formulas
of thought, yet walk
on shrieking chalk heels
these neural corridors,
float and grin ghostlike through
dusty synaptic nodes.
The god of mathematics
laughs at his supposed
disproof. Pythagoras
is stretched like Prometheus,
the hypotenuse drawn out,
bisected by the future
pencil.
For him I will sacrifice
the first of the looseleaf flock,
ring the bell theory and
construct the imaginary field
from the real.