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
lore.
Would-to-be Academician, pon-
tificate to
what (for an ever)
is, paid down axiomatic lanes,
a postulated soul,
sensed
manifest in quiz.