Mona Chalabi signs off cheerfully,
Concluding another quantification
Exercise in punditry. I like her.
I liked Marilyn Vos Savant. I liked
The maddening and delightful
Monte Hall riddle's answer. I like
The comforting sense numbers give me
That the cosmos is, if not
Knowable, at least explorable, maybe
Even exploitable, albeit not by me.
Numbers permit a bit of synchronicity
Within the infinite divisibility that makes
Everything from nothing to nothing,
Permit that gush of fellow feeling
That in humans is tied to reward
Centers so tightly that, for instance, a joke
Understood or a sentence completed
In a foreign tongue sends a rush
Of neuronal accomplishment buzz
Into the heart of the marginal mind.
Numbers feel like the rough, original
Feral tongue of God, the she-wolf
Licking us foundlings in her wilderness
Preparatory to rearing or devouring us.
To be sure, we remain inept, the most
Adept among us purely paranoid
As Kurt Godel, refusing all sustenance
At the end of his incomplete timelessness.
We are not really feral. We are hopeful
Past hope or help, but we coordinate
Tricks well enough to want to be wild,
To want to howl in unison the end of time.
Numbers produced the fly-by of Pluto,
Our wink and a nod to our Charon.