ÂSense of Proportion  An anvil struck Its pitch Twice as much As An anvil struck That was Twice as much In weight  This struck Pythagoras With the weight Of a universe Opening up  From shape of cup Intervals on lyre Germination to flower To triangleâs angles A ratio roots Earth, air Water, fire Sun, moon dance Star, planet slumber Sound, vision Shape, form Amount, number Myriad tangles Distorted contortion Blind chance, dumb collision Random atoms, chaotic storm But for proportion  Pythagoras had his second seizure that month, near nightfall A sunspot burst across his brain Writhing, a fish in a coracle under a crescent moon Yearning for the sea When he woke on his floor To the hiss of rain His eyes sprang open To light in the night sky  This was not his time to die Clinging to his notion Like he clung to himself Clutching for ratio For spasm, commotion He climbed up and out of where he had been Afloat in a boat hewn out of ocean Adrift in the dark endless, endless Where the struck anvil beyond the horizon No matter its size Clanged always pitch perfect In perfect harmony with everything