There are many angles to living life:
looking out of a window six stories high,
strolling by a pond with mallards swimming,
being a vegetable before tv,
or just dozing, thinking about what’s happened.
The poet Euclid wrote about angles
in a way that retarded mathematics,
just as the broad eloquence of Plato
with dazzling angles of fictional thoughts
persuaded people that common sense fails.
If it wasn’t for old Aristotle,
would we have arrived at Rousseau, Hegel,
Whitehead, or any of the brilliant brains
who point like a corrective weathervane?