Andy  P. Antippas		The Mathematicians Tyconius, the disaffected Donatist, Claimed the world holds both false and true. We know the false who love themselves alone. The others, in mismatched socks, Sip coffee at Starbucks, envisioning blurred motes In Higgs Field, figuring how many infinities It takes to tile a plane, and how many threads It takes to weave Sierpinski’s Carpet. In the vicinity of singularity, they are The quincunx of pristine cogitations. They sit there doodling,                                                 (And like Rogatianus, the Roman senator, remember to Eat only a bagel with cream cheese once Every other day), quietly setting down in Voynich Pencil squiggles the which way time flows. In this like Ambrose, (Of whom Augustine said was first to read and write With his mouth closed), they pursue the One, That simple  unifying Law among God’s many, Lucent and uncompounded. This is, after all, the way to salvation, Not in the matter in which He made his abode, But in the spaces in between— Unlike Him, they have no wish to transcend their humanity, But, instead, to perfect ours.