Nine billion, one hundred ninety two
Million, six hundred thirty one
Thousand, seven hundred seventy
Microwaves pulsed by last second,
One for every person alive
And for every person alive
Whenever there were two billion
Or so persons alive. But who knows
How many of the persons alive
Then have descendants alive today?
Alive in the last second counted
By that cesium atom clock?
All that wiggle room. All that zoom-lensed
Confusion zipping back and forth
Between what numbers elicit faith
And what numbers strain credulity.
Let's get back to poetry.
“'In Contemporary poetry,'
Russell explains in a recent
Interview with his editor,
'Most of the time when you’re reading
About an "I" who’s watching a bird
Build a nest in a backyard, you can
Probably bet that the poet watched
A bird build a nest in their backyard
And wrote a poem about it.'" Oh,
Bullshit, Brian. Bad gambler you'd make.
Count the numbers of birds and poets,
The numbers of poems about birds
Building nests in the backyards
Of contemporary poets,
The numbers of microwaves it takes
To build a nest in a poet's
Backyard as he gives an interview
To his editor about his poems
Versus other poems' probabilities.
It's sweet of you to have such faith
In your unquantifiable grasp
Of the poetics of egos and nests,
But you've no idea what time it is.