The vision blurred, the not-quite perfect, full,
Complete disc of the local, drifting satellite
Showed a not-quite circle. Pi. If the cosmos,
Which most likely never meant to send us
Any sort of clue, should choose to signal
Something winking, ha ha, pi would do.
Likewise, if we needed a hint that our ratios
And numbers, however deft at prediction,
Better, certainly, than any wizards, saints, or
Prophets produced, were not actually truth,
The minor discrepancy, guide to madness
And lunacy, pi would do. Nothing measures
Perfectly as whole numbers, Pythagoras,
However many of us devoutly wish it true.
It’s a mismatched universe, and the moon,
Off-balance since before, well, well before us
Or you, continually falters in search of truth.
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