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.
