A hypercube is called a tesseract
and can’t exist in three or four dimensions.
It floats imaginary and exact,
an edifice of logical extensions
that I can neither build nor draw nor see,
nor picture in the certainty of prose,
nor capture in the bars of poetry,
but I can hold the image no one knows:

I can wrap my mind around that shape,
and enter it to sample and explore.
I can use its windows to escape
or let its lines illuminate a door
to passages that beggar all description,
and wisdom just beyond our definition.