sat in an old chair
beneath the dim light
of his attic window
away from all the furore,
they’re more beautiful
than formulae or chalk
scrawled diagonally
across a dusty board
but nobody reads them,
they’re like apples
piled high on my lawn,
or red stars in galaxies
too far to reach,
without maximum energy,
minimum mass,
and the radiance
of imagination on a page
to take us on our way.