What’s all this fuss about 1? One?
Once you are dead, Eternity’s begun.
What do they say about 2? Two?
Tomb and its Emptiness are far too few.
What’s the real point about 3? Three:
The Real, the Unreal, and their dreamer, Me.
There’s 4: explain it to me. Four?
Form my extremities, one heart their core.
I want to know about 5 then, Five:
Fie, vain, literal digits! Bytes now thrive.
How is poor 6 now feeling? Six?
Sick still at closing time, his feet are bricks.
More about famous 7? Seven?
Sev—enough now of that Highest Heaven.
What of the 8 beyond that? Eight
Ate for’s and to’s, left nothing on his plate.
Gestation aside, then, 9: Nine?
Nigh nowhere, the high home-run scorned the line.
I still forget what 10 meant. Ten?
Tenderly awkward, as we all were then.
February 2, 1989