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.

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