On Method -- Mary Margaret Sloan

We must do the same, apparently, perish
rather than delay, astonished, as mathematical
foundations yield no graceful superstructure, while
artful moral palaces built on sand and mud

are informed by reasonable error. As if looking
were reversed, our guide made signs, none of us
understanding accuracies of reflection.
With scarce any grounds for settled conviction,
light slipping on animated surface slides its stars

into the eye of a storm where regions of calm
embrace, divide in sleep to write:
words repel each other, each seeking isolation,
pass the threshold into the palaces of our instructors.

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