for Tim Horvath
Numbers are beautiful in themselves.
In themselves, they are black
and typographically elegant and linear, or
sometimes drunk and drunkenly curved.
Suspenders are the meretriciously declarative descendants of the figure and the ground.
The future figure against a foghorn background of bay windows and the numbers used
to plan the roof's rake reach through the fluorescence and meet at randomly induced
angles underneath a constellated sky.
Reds are numbers in themselves.
Bloodshot headphone eyes pass
through the shadow of his equipage,
precariously vinyl, mistaken for
a number of blackbirds. Numbers
are beautiful in Danny Devito's leer,
in Theosophical thought forms spread
by sewer rats on an interior, subterranean
wall. Here, in the wrinkled laughter,
expectancy drains a Coke to its dregs
and numbers are beautiful as numbers.
Sometimes I startle to pay attention to sound.
Writing under these conditions akins a puzzle.
I could write:
"Her tongue cradles estuaries,"
and not care what it means,
and I would,
if it was any other morning, but
I read Ann's new book last night
and mere play feels like lunacy.
Make a slight revision, tighten every line.
Number the evocative memories.
Find a flamboyant synonym for light.
The good intentions last for half a page of secret architecture before I fall back into the
sentimental red of importantly awkward forms. I sigh with perfect strangers.
My warm mouth bathes my tongue. My body seems more a part of me since my accident.