The Numerologist Takes Notes
For a thousand miles.
A thousand miles of straight road.
A thousand grass-clung attentions,
grass-clung empty-sky hillocks,
plastic bag billowing fat-boy shapes
hanging on the barbed wire.
Three hundred thousand footsteps crunching
the thousands of millions of year-ground granite.
Twelve hundred hundreds trees burn.
Another. Another. Turn
at the liquor store on Bartoke Road
burned tar black, fire burnished.
A hundred further, five thousand
odd hundred feet up, another,
another. On the thousands of feet,
the clouds cover the countless others
we're at the top of. We look down.