by Gideon Burton
Of all the numbers counted even, odd,
or dark within the scale of fractions dense
along the endless integers, the flawed
eternities of primes whose great expanse
is random-scattered, patchy, pure, across
the exponential wilderness -- I wish
I had one multiplier without loss,
nor subject to divisions poorly rich.
With such I would such mathematics yield
for you, you’d wonder what remainder stayed,
what algorithms algebra concealed
obscure that might have freer play.
While others crack their chalk in mute despair,
These nimble number symbols root my square.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - dullhunk