PHI

The formula for perfection, not created—found
by the dissectors, the analyzers—
observing, measuring, discovering
to their astonishment that the number
is everywhere, from the galaxies to our DNA,
both hidden and visible,
in a beautiful face and a fiddlehead fern.
1.618 begins the sequence,
the numbers going on and on,
an irrational shot at infinity.
1.618 in hemoglobin and in sap,
in you, me, and Cleopatra.
In the things our eyes find beautiful,
everywhere and always there is Phi.