LDR

By BERNARD FERGUSON

the great ramble of the roads toward the airport, the flight
up & down the flight of stairs inside the house in which
i work now, inside the city & its parks that sprawl long & point
toward the river, which points toward an ocean, the soft hush of the air
conditioning unit above my bed, the drop of rain against my window
& the duty of its siblings falling together, the music they make
& the count i keep of them in my head, the way i count without
my knowing, like i count the seconds, violent shifts from nothing
to nothing & the wind of them against my body, i stack & stack,
the heel of my broken boot against the pavement, some number
of steps that will carry me, today, to where i am needed, another number
to carry me to where i need, i catalogue like addition, recollection, & i keep
the math simple, like all the rules that hold this world’s body & thus
hold my own, rules like distance & time that i must pass
through, that i must praise like i praise all gods, the ones that keep you
alive as i am alive, that promise me the miracle of exchange, this tapestry of
little proofs for the warmth that is your warmth, for the time that is your time.

[Purchase Issue 18 here.]