The Book of Numbers

a small book of numbers


I am not I I am not you I am neither singular nor plural – I am the absence of I, not the opposite, the absence of you, I am the presence of something that does not exist.


I am alone and simple I have only one thought – that I am - that I am the opposite of not. There is only me in my world. A single stream of light in a void.


Do you see the sinuous curve? Do you see the coquette twirl in me? Do you see how I reach out both ways? Look both ways? But still I look back to one. And yet, and yet, I hold the


Oh yes, in me there’s scope for play – I am the simplest shape; I am sharp geometry. Sharp-edged. Pointed. I am the other, to the you and the me, the one that upsets our simple geometry.


We are that four – like Shakespeare’s and Lear’s women – indefatigable, combined; two of us are sharp, one wayward, one looking the other way.


Thanks to a very kind friend, was able to attend last week's prom concert by the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra (that attempt by Daniel Barenboim to use his art towards conflict resolution).


I am the one that holds the memory of what it was to be nothing, and yet I sprout from it. I am Jupiter – six places away from the sun – cold, vast, shiftless.


Hallow, I am next. I rhyme with heaven and leaven. I am after the hard time. I’m the one that says, it’s okay, things carry on. No big deal. I am the gibbet without a noose.


I am where two emptinesses meet, the intersection of opposites and likes. I am the double helix, the core of all creation. I am infinity standing horizontal. I am the shape of two,

9 - 12

9 I am the last symphony – to go beyond me is to vent without inspiration – or so I feel, feel now. I also remember the shape of nothing but I grow...