I wake during the 25th
hour between happy and
witching. I peer out

the window to discover
it’s that 5th
season again. Locked

in a tiny bathroom
in New York City’s 6th
borough, I open the fire

escape

door to feel the breeze coming
off the 6th ocean’s surface—

not frigid, not too warm, not
recognizable even with my 6th
sense. The Earth’s 2nd

moon is waning, and the 6th
Great Lake is swallowing hard
1,000 miles in the 5th

direction.

The 10th muse forces me
into a spoken word chant

that lasts beyond the 13th
month in a karaoke bar
on the 3rd bank

of Pittsburgh’s 4th river.
The 13th juror knows how
to make me confess to being

neither guilty
nor innocent. A 3rd
verdict rises

with the 2nd sun.
I count 12 dimensions
and turn off the light.

“There’s really only one ocean”

appears on the 5th
wall in glow-in-the-dark paint.