— Jerry Dyer
Let’s posit that the number of grains of sand
visible from the Santa Monica Pier
is equal to the number of stars in the Milky Way.
Hypothesis: star-births equal grinding-births of sand,
just as inhalations match our breathings out.
Take every ant in the world, and let each
carry a drop of water on its back.
How many aquifers could be re-charged?
Train them to march into fire,
and the very flames of Hell could be doused.
Add up the miles you pedaled your bike,
playing-cards taped to the spokes,
all the pacings of rooms, plus the number
of times you’ve circled the globe in your car.
Sum all that, and divide it by
the inches your soul has grown.
Sublimities are all that matter.
All the seconds of inning-changes,
of the tyings of shoes, all the hours of eyes
gazing toward the horizon of always,
all that time is heavenly ballast,
the necessary wait for the touch
that will turn us inside out.