loved the Möbius, and the sky’s big suggestion
of a universe, and now and then
would imagine a heaven as if it were his
to construct and manage, death just a pause
before the real work would begin.
In truth, and in his practice, he preferred things
that had endings, was sure anything
that goes on and on
was destined to mislead, be shapeless,
false. But still the idea appealed to him
the way feelings appeal
to those who feel they should be thinking.
Some, the innocent, would call him the architect
of infinity, which he wouldn’t correct,
while the rest of us kept as quiet as we could.