Closed Curve

         I get the pizza at Pascal's.

         He wagers I'll be back for more.

         A pragmatic salvation

         From eternal damnation,

         He claims, can be mine,

         Then adds, "The price is right for

         Agnostic swine."

         Now,

         That I will ingest an area

         Equal to its radius squared times pi

         Is roundly accepted.

         Moreover,

         That his pie's rationality

         Will be symmetrically applied to my psyche

         Is without question.

         However,

         Existential anchovies,

         Metaphysical mushrooms,

         Ontological onions

         —Easy to swallow,

         Yet hard to digest—

         Like a fistfull of jacks

         These caltrops of doubt

         Gnaw at my innards

         And gash them throughout.

         Sorry, Blaise,

         It wasn't so much the cheese

         As those soteriological sausages.

         Tomorrow I'll have the plate du jour

         At René's.