Then, when it ended
I wouldn’t light another one.
On the flat rock by the river I’d sit
And watch fresh water catch
Draw circles with their never-tiring tale
On the water bed; though, each time, they fail.
The Math of the water — in the
Theories they make — are sums not perused
Even by the nymphs of the lake: rather,
In their non-existent existence,
They simmer up to the atmosphere; and dive down back
To see Mathematicians consume it like cake.
What, then, my friend, is the
Moral of my verse? Worse still, what connection
Between fish swimming? nymphs in flight:
Specially, since the lines that preceded such
Transgression of sorts began with an extinguishing
That I fail to reignite?