By Thomas Page
I have been told the number for pi
That extends more than the stars in the sky
Or the time I wait for the roundabout by
The Victorian houses on Capitol Street.
I know that the radius
Like some band’s hiatus
Is calculable like the latus
Lines along the beach’s regular status
That keep the rounded star in the firmament
That blinds me in my rearview
Mirror that seems strikingly new
As I drive westward into the blue
Mornings of springtime freshly grew
And the grass nightly dew
From the darkened winter’s morning.
Now, in autumn, when this poem debuts here
I cannot know what my vernal self can hear
As I type this on my computer listening to Shakespeare
Spoken by students with the gusto of buccaneers
Looking to me as some seer
About to disappear
On the academic bier
Looking like a musketeer.
As I search for something more
That may to the storied lore.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 