by Douglas Goetsch

    I'd walk close to buildings counting

    bricks， run my finger in the grout

    till it grew hot and numb¹. Bricks

    in a row， rows on a floor， multiply

    floors， buildings， blocks in the city.

    I knew there were numbers for everything——

    tires piled in mountains at the dump，

    cars on the interstate to Maine，

    pine needles blanketing the shoulder of the road，

    bubbles in my white summer spit.

    I dreamed of counting the galaxies²

    of freckles³ on Laura MacNally，

    touching⁴ each one——she loves me，

    she loves me not——right on up her leg，

    my pulse beating away at the sea

    wall of my skin， my breath

    inhaling⁵ odd， exhaling⁶ even.

    To know certain numbers

    would be like standing⁷ next to God，

    a counting God， too busy

    to stop for war or famine.

    I'd go out under the night sky

    to search for Him up there：

    God counting， next to Orion

    drawing his bow. I'd seen

    an orthodox Jew on the subway，

    bobbing into the black volume

    in his palms， mouthing words

    with fury and precision， a single

    drop of spittle at the center

    of his lip catching⁸ the other lip

    and stretching like silk thread.

    At night I dreamed a constant stream

    of numbers shooting past my eyes so fast

    all I could do was whisper as they

    came. I'd wake up reading the red

    flesh of my lids， my tongue

    flapping like ticker tape.

    I come from a family of counters；

    my brother had 41 cavities in 20 teeth

    and he told everyone he met；

    Grandpa figured his compound

    daily interest in the den⁹， at dusk，

    the lights turned off， the ice

    crackling in his bourbon； my father

    hunched¹⁰ over his desk working

    overtime¹¹ for the insurance company，

    using numbers to predict

    when men were going to die.

    When I saw the tenth digit¹² added

    to the giant odometer in Times Square

    tracking world population， I wondered

    what it would take for those wheels

    to stop and reverse. What monsoon¹³

    or earthquake could fill graves faster

    than babies wriggled¹⁴ out of wombs？

    Those vast cemeteries¹⁵ in Queens——

    white tablets lined up like dominoes

    running over hills in perfect rows——

    which was higher， the number

    of the living or the dead？ Was it

    true， what a teacher had said：

    get everyone in China to stand on a bucket，

    jump at exactly the same time

    and it'd knock us out of orbit？

    You wouldn't need everyone，

    just enough， the right number，

    and if you knew that number

    you could point to a skinny

    copper-colored kid and say

    You're the one， you can send us flying.

    That's all any child wants： to count.

    That's all I wanted to be， the millionth

    customer， the billionth burger sold， the one

    with the foul¹⁶ ball， waving for TV.

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