I Flee to the Precision of Poetry

Pouts

groans

and pranks

upend me

scream across my mind

disrupt my need for certainty.

I groan about the square root of minus one. Uggh! Arg!

And I pout about prime numbers being so alone

(except when I add them: even.)

(Except for Two: Always wanting attention! )

Math, irrational.

Why ain’t Pi

exact?

God’s

prank.

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