Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer
to our number 8—
another day
in the last month
of a depleted year—
I realize even tipped
on its side,
its resemblance
to infinity
is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.
Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer
to our number 8—
another day
in the last month
of a depleted year—
I realize even tipped
on its side,
its resemblance
to infinity
is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.
Each time I pull out a calculator
I feel that disapproving
look outweigh your seductive
glint. It doesn’t add up—nothing
does since I discovered you
were gone to the numbers
bonfire beyond. And you’ve been monitoring
the flame for years. Where was I?
I never let you take me
to the Take No Heroes Hotel.
Now I’ve misplaced the directions
but can still prove
I haven’t lost my way. I remember
something about forgetting limits.
Let my lucky 8
get knocked down tonight.