“The universe may have a complex geometry—like a doughnut.”—news report*
Hard by the backyard door, the iron kitchen range
scoffing orange crates and coal, Mother fried donuts
on it, upping them with cinnamon-sugar glaze.
The cosmic sous-chef thus sautéd a pocket's change
of stars—no amateur content with half-baked mutts,
the dear!—back in cuisine's antediluvian days.
So it is now. Of the great hypersphere, it’s strange
to say, the volume—2π2R3—is assigned donuts,
too, whose holes are infinitely small. God so toys
with those swopping souls in the toroidal exchange
we call the world. All those who are not wise are nuts.
How like you that, O gourmandizing girls and boys?