Thirteen, a world away from primary school,
I struggled with the notion of a point:
An entity without body or breadth
That fled sharp pencils tested on my tongue,
And proved more elusive than an electron
Whose cloud covered blackboards with unknowing.

Shadows patched the fading weeks of that summer.
The pinoak’s leaves fell for the hundredth time.
The dark seed had been sown. Shuffling the park,
I questioned, doubted, picked the last scab
From my knee as if it were a crumb of happiness.

Faith was growing, raising hopes by degrees:
That Holy Ghost of geometry prefigured the soul,
Defined the shortest line between God and me.