These feet are bent, bold and on their own
full of a vigor that isn’t mine, I am a captive
pulled along, thrown into gullies, dunked in lakes
tossed into the clouds, I count sparrows from above
I count the red bricks one by one, I am taken
by long winds and heavy currents, by these wicked feet
I am wrenched backward, buried in desert sand
buried in banks of Minnesota snow, buried
in the crypts of ancient kings, counting their bones
one by one, I count them
A glacier grinds me under, waves spit me out
onto a rocky beach, I plummet through the dark sky
and count fireflies, I count street lamps and headlights
Finally, I am marched to the edge of the flat world
the razor between there is and there isn’t
and there is nothing to see, so I count the seconds
so I count the thoughts, and then thoughts about thoughts
and then I count all the things I have counted
each one, and count them all again
just waiting for these weary feet, the tired winds
to take me somewhere that I haven’t been.
Author’s Notes:
I think the idea of counting things is interesting. Counting objects is a behavior associated with obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I think that at its root is a drive to put things in a schema of some sort—a way to make the chaotic world outside you less confusing by breaking it into parts and putting them in order. That’s something that most people probably do in some form or another.
I’m not entirely happy with the name I chose for the poem. The idea was sort of that it has this feeling of driving force, but it’s not as interesting as I want it to be.
Favorite line:
in the crypts of ancient kings, counting their bones
A line that I find awkward but important:
by long winds and heavy currents, by these wicked feet