Count

I count.
1 week 2 days 14 hours 37 minutes

since taking photographs.
I count indiscriminately:

chairs lining a waiting room
light poles at night
how many windows make up a house,
paint cans in a garage,
cleaning supplies under a sink,
anything on shelves, Hyvee is time consuming
rings on my fingertips, how they look like flat mountains.

Eskimos have hundreds of snow words.
And Love? Four letters:

one looks like a bowl of apples
two looks like a bowl of apples on a dining table
three looks like a bowl of apples on a dining table with chandelier lights dimmed
four looks like a bowl of apples on a dining table with chandelier lights dimmed and cracked window where wind howls through the screen and you can't help but

get up out of bed at 3a.m., turn the front door knob, walk out
take off all your clothes and stand in the middle of the street with your eyes closed:

Do you feel the light pole on your skin?
Do you feel night rushing your ribs?

Well do you?

Here are some really old film photographs found.