Évariste

Évariste lying in the grass, face up

probably felt the dew soak his shirt

realised it was his own, cooling blood

perhaps serene he had laid down

his numbers to rest, his words to rest

his mind perhaps churning more

connections of higher orders

as life became clearer ebbing away

perhaps he saw another version of himself

die as well, die again, die afresh

perhaps he saw Évariste, face down

lying in the sky, hand pressed to his chest

perhaps terrified that time now

converging in with all the momentums

life, death, love, hate, tragedy, comedy

aware that the hardest battles

the ones with the highest cost

are fought in the mind and in the heart

bring inertia to stillness in pure velocity

fathomed the symmetries can’t just stop here

have to fold in on themselves, coil and recoil

as breathing, as in the awe of the storm

until the most formidable of lights

encased in filaments of darkness

bore him into interwoven infinities

inside of which everyhim,

everywhen, everywhere

finally made the sense

the numbers pointed to