Fixation

47 times a day
I pick up the phone
and put it down again.

50 at least
when drums beat underneath
my fingernails, shooting pins
of arrested reason.

I watch them watch me
in the summer silence perforated
by furious mayflies buzzing for
mates before time runs out;
before the earth spins the arrival
of one more day.

39 – the times I count to ten,
84 – the times I remind myself to breathe
25 – the times I turn around
from the door of my own home, concluding
to continue living for now.

10 times I circle around
God and Man and Existence
mimicking the earth’s mindless
comforting cavort around the sun.

4 and a half – the hours I sleep
grateful for time passing
for passing time.

At five in the morning
I whisper to my shadow
another end to another day:
another just beginning - it whispers
back to me, white teeth gleaming.