Father was platonist, heavy rain ’bout
the grip. Mother, Brouwer-bred,

conscriptive grumbling
through her trip. Shtiblville, I know–

name and luck–
a contumelious-type fate. But small

wood outside (unprotuberant
flat), sits

beyond its local gait. A sopping fruited curdle,

insurrect, his ‘fore-score gravity
and neophyte’s guess–

Under dirt for Dedekind’s disparate
sun-sick pore, monikered

‘too cubed’,
holding credulous, only,

unrecorded floated

Would-to-be Academician, pon-
tificate to

what (for an ever)
is, paid down axiomatic lanes,

a postulated soul,

manifest in quiz.