A Norwegian came close, but he died of the lung
before he saw it in its fullness—or perhaps watched
while the light went, the blood at the edge of his mouth.
The poets wept, the mathematicians back to work;
they'd hacked their names in time, but with this death
they'd dash their brains on walls eternal, crying
giddy thanks forever—forever shrinks & shrinks.
A child young & French has it almost in his hands,
sees it dance on the ceiling of some nowhere at night
like the gift-bearing hands of the angels.
And the mathematicians quail at this thing
they cannot see & suppose him a Nordic ghost.
And they feign & cannot read his papers,
& they visit him not in prison,
& they rejoice when he's shot
dueling for coquette honor.
Lungs drain in the softness of grass,
the poets weep, the mathematicians work.
And time & the devil get up to their tricks,
& we thrash against believing in the demiurge.