counting/coveting

Since I have learned to count
I have learned to covet
the coveting and the counting
come together in the numbers
in my wallet
in my waking
in my bed,
in my taking.

I make a mathematic connection
of your birthdate and mine
a crude gematria of our names

October. November. December.

The fall,
the utter fucking waste.

A field lying fallow
a cigarette in the marrow
broken, burnished faith.

Each day, each hour,
a little more sober,
counting inches to suicide
coveting every pause.