He fractured white light into seven colours,
reckoned the distance to the moon,
wrote laws for the movement
of bodies: no mystery to him
until now. Planets in their orbit,
the sea's tides, his eyes
locked to the lit face
of the young mathematician.
A body at rest remains so
unless some force act on it.
So many years, no joy
but in numbers, no troubling
of the flesh. The pink tongue-tip
idly licking a finger
constricts his heart. His edges
flicker, scintillate, like a heat-haze.
A hand brushes his cheek
and it colours: to each action
an equal and opposite reaction.
He tries to think straight:
the moon. I worked out its mass. Moonlight,
kissing in moonlight. The movement
of bodies. The moon draws
the tides. A knife in my eye.
Once, probing for truth,
he nearly blinded himself.
This time, he will flinch
from the lacerating light.
Legend will say he died a virgin
and never saw the sea.