Counting

One

Fire spreading lies and rumors,

Milling with a water wheel

Turned by the dry river bed

And the feet of a young boy

Trying to push the demons

Back down to heavenly depths

So that his nose is no longer

Captured by sulphur smoke.

Two

Fingers clutching crutches betwixt

In manners deemed kind by

Aged nuns with filthy habits,

But more strength in one eye from

The constant exercise of staring

At that which not be named,

Rough to the touch creating callouses

That when sanded reveal a tender heart.

Three

Shaggy curtains hanging from trees,

Gnarled in contortion but draped

To gather good fortunes from

Divine winds that would otherwise

Sink their ships in briny depths

That pressure the chest and fingertips

To slow dance and fight as if

A ballerina and desperate soldier

Were toe to toe in quicksand.

Four

Scores tallied at the end of halves

Divided by despots in brass rings,

Passing around watermelon and

Swallowing the seeds to bury them

In acid baths with scientists

In gloves and goggles dissecting

Human thoughts and human minds

By watching a butterfly emerge

From self-imposed exile.

Composed 07/02/2012

Author’s Note: Just another day in the village.

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