8 ½
an age you and I once were, in nanoseconds, inversions of the hourglass, lunar phases, and dog years…
8 ½ -> the sign for infinity turned on end and made to walk all the roads of the earth, accompanied by its little friends, one and two.
Inverted eyeglasses. Strange thoughts. 8 ½
seconds is when to open the parachute unless it’s already too late.
8 ½: a large hat. Small shoes. Pellets in the sealed lips of a shotgun shell, paces from the bent palm tree to the pirate treasure, rings before the executor of your uncle’s estate hangs up. It takes
8 ½ minutes for sunlight to reach the earth and dendrites in the brain to survive after the light grows dim and the heart stumbles to a stop.
8 ½ 8 ½ 8 ½
– the title of a partly autobiographical film by Federico Fellini;
– the height in feet of the world’s tallest man;
– sticks of butter in a wedding cake;
– fake carats in a floozie’s sparkler;
– quakes to make seismographs scribble and spans fall.
If 10’s the ceiling and 0 the floor 8 ½ is near the top. 8 ½, as pain, is a lot. You’re crawling the walls. You want a shot.
As a breeze, in knots, it’s enough to unfurl the black and red banner of the departing craft:
8 ½.
black bag
Where, William Carlos Williams,
are your patients?
How in the world, the words,
did you escape
them? Erase
them? In
stanzas succinct
as prescriptions
wouldn’t a few
more fit? Between curved
blades of obstetric
forceps, the book of birth
and death certificates?
White as the door
are they still
there? Waiting
on the heart’s rapid knock,
the hoped-for answer?
Why is your first name
also your last?