Sometimes I think about the stairs we climb
to get to your room
(there are thirty-two)
and how they are like
a rope bridge twisting and knotting with the wind
You run across as though you just might fall
and end up in the rocks below
that you are so used to—
you know the house in the dark
like a thief’s favorite room.
You make me count a lot of things
so somehow this beast could survive
and these figures could morph into the pillars
on which I live my life.
You can ask me for equations: how often?
How often between our silences do the dead leaves fall?
How often do we try, but fail, to forget it all?