Each one, a part

 

The saw warbles as it inquires about the age of trees.

Whistling while it works

Merriment

In the motion

Repetition 

as a source of transcendence

as a source of Oblivion.

Doing their part 

To accumulate all of the numbers in the universe,

cramming them into a dirt-caked, mostly empty light beer bottle. A film of spit and disappointment lining the bottle’s bottom.

Long since worth finishing.

Cram it full of what might as well be infinite.

Try to seal the bottle and throw it

end over end

Into the limitless flotsam and jetsam of the ocean

Bobbing its head until it descends

to join shells

dreams that have shriveled and sank

Next to the skeletal remains

of some leviathan who once 

was the man on these streets

Let the numbers leak out

try to count their number

a guessing game

as the tide rises

as the saw catches on the wood.

Alive and uncertain.

Hear the symphony rise and fall and rise and fall and wait for the curtain before you commence

Applauding.