Poetry — January 5, 2012 12:23 — 0 Comments

Digits – Jed Myers

Zero. How can it be?
So many naughts inside it.

After a day of great wind,
the torn-down leaves in drifts,
it calmed, the night sky clear.

And the one—it’s a riot
of countless emptinesses. Why
count on?
Today, the trees,

so bare, I’m embarrassed
for all of them—each one

reaching, innumerable digits
in the cold, for the unnamable
thing the gray sky holds.

Bio:

Jed Myers lives, writes, and makes music in Seattle. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Nimrod International Journal, Golden Handcuffs Review, Atlanta Review, Quiddity, the Journal of the American Medical Association, the Rose Alley Press anthology Many Trails to the Summit, and elsewhere. He is a psychiatrist with a therapy practice and teaches at the University of Washington.

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney

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