david sharp is a poet and performer getting his PhD in Speech Communication at the University of Southern
Illinois in Carbondale.
i will miss you, my numerology,
like i will miss the digits of my hands.
i will miss the ticking of your clocks and the rolling over of your odometric wheels,
counting out change against the counter and setting the temperature of the oven.
i will miss your experimental replicability.
perhaps most i will miss your zero, your absence marker, your symmetric emptiness;
top to bottom, side to side and all the way around—
i could cut you in half with a mirror over and over and over
and you will still add up to nothing. all ways.
i will not drive against your limits anymore,
or measure myself against percentile understandings of perfection—
this is the dawn, my lover, my abacus, and you are a cat. an owl.
i am a herald lark, a day lily,
the granite face of a cliff and the rotation of the spheres in space;
i am turning over slowly, marking my revolutions by light and the aging of my skin.
i am no longer your calendar, your accounting.
i am sorry, my heart, my calculator,
but this is dawn, and it’s time to count the sparrows by colors,
to add up my name with memories,
to mark the missing of you in ache and ritual.