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Intimations Of Numeracy
by Earl Coleman

One's
Unitarian,
an ecumenical empowerment
that reared us up uniquely
over creatures at the dawn of time.
One is not the whole of me
but does imply
my merging with the rest.
One has to grant
the singularity that makes one prime.

Two's
evidently
riven, Janus-faced,
uncertain if this tragic comedy
we prize is farce
or clearer-cut than that.
Two breaks in half
in no time flat
and leaves us in the Midway
on our arse.

Three
speaks to us of Trinity
and seraph's Heaven,
by happenstance the very name
for Oppy's test site at Los Alamos.
We trip amidst
the tangle of the trey,
that circles to the right religiously,
then lurches left
before it gets too close.

Four
cautiously
prepares the way,
and even-handed
takes up quarters in the square,
a crossing where
we're free to contemplate
the elements
or build our rectilinear
compartments in the air.

Five's
but a handful
of our working days,
or clustered stars
that occupy Cassiopeia.
Five vivifies
the senses
of the body politic which cites
the Pentateuchal basis for
the occupation of Judea.

Six
might be a term
for Senators or Beelzebub's tattoo,
Gauguin's pennies
winking in Tahitian night,
or throwing for a touchdown
on the final play,
when hitting on all cylinders
our sparks ignite.

Seven.
Wisdom's pillars?
Or Lot's wife and salt?
Its sins are deadly
although some are droll.
We cannot veil the verity
of seven's most ambiguous
ambivalence
which triumphs only on the come
but loses on the second roll.

Eight
has many sides to it
but wraps its tentacles, an incubus
(or succubus to stay politically correct)
upon us sleepers all,
circling as it does
unendingly,
as Adam must have girdled Eve
(or the reverse)
before the Fall.

Nine's
constitution
makes it reign supreme,
the triple synthesis
before return to unity
(once we explore
the theory
that zero doesn't count for much,
and let us now accept
that opportunity.)

Zero.
Is it goose or Orphic Egg,
symbolizing nothing
more than death
when we have done with living?
Bear in mind, without it
there is no perfection.
And since this poem rates as zero
or as ten
I offer it to you with some misgiving.

(Published by Notre Dame Review, 8/18/03.)