Margins

The mathematician writes poetry in his margins

to a lover he has never quite grasped.

He speaks to her in Greek symbols,

metaphors that communicate more

movement than they can compute

each curve a whisper,

each proof a confession

of what logic can’t hold.

He feels their dance

down to the molecule

a symmetry of motion and want.

He braids her dimensions

of time and space,

holds each of her hairs to the light,

studying the fabric

that weaves all reality into one.

Each thread shines

derived from stardust

and darkness.

He attempts to trace her outline in smeared ink

still she remains

a black hole in his mind,

a scribble in the margins of his page,

a vacuum that evades containment.

Something so soft,

so fluid,

so unwilling to be solved,

bound by rules,

still she shimmers with exceptions.