This Is Proof

She can count
to infinity, or
as long as she lives

to write. Poems
are tallies in a growing series
of figure eights. Notches

in the leg
of a wooden desk—

here’s where
it gets locked

in. Little deaths
and tremendous sighs

of relief
when another one clicks.


To become retro
for the third time, to hear
laughter cloud the air

from a different direction—more west
than east, south than north—to lose
track of the full moon

tally is to be in medias
res. Is to be on
the verge

of reconciliation: talk
with listen, sleep with walk, trust with
survive, survive with prevail.