The Mathematician to His Indifferent Lover / S.A. Volz

I stood on starry night not to chart
the slow circle of planets but to swear of
servitude to soul, bent to the lesser art
of poetry—Shakespeare’s line that love
is not altered in time but made constant by—
a straight line across the plane, spanning free
and without end like the digits of pi.
But how to measure rates of change? I to we,
the probabilities of the heart foreign
to my calculation—pulse can only keep
beats per minute, can never take in
the rhythms of blood increased in hot leaps.
So I turn to you for the solution to find—
are we greater than, or lesser, or undefined?