Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Two

Allan Peterson

My Math

Two egrets and three gulls are five, ten with shadows, doubles of the night in daylight, plus two for the red hawks watching. This is my math, just as I was multiplied by the bear and her cubs crossing at Chama, by the swarm of winged ants and the warblers that came frenzied for them. If I wait for the fall migration, if I am my integer while being stalked by bacteria, I might calculate an uneasiness of earth, including the skink that hides in the dryer vent, a continent about to shift in its chair, but I am impatient, still counting deliberately on my fingers and stars.