Mine is a life dedicated
to the calculation of loss.
I know with certainty
almost nothing. Yet here I am
executing legions
of decisions each moment.
I aim to organize
my ledgers like a skull.
A place I imagine to be full.
Of spreadsheets that seizure
like cities. Undefined functions
that compile just fine.
Explore, record, explore,
record, explore, record.
Eventually I learn to limit
the loss. I come to know
where I should not go:
The fire escape, zip codes
with low property taxes,
some drugs, some jobs.
Then the threshold beyond
which I’m just an airplane.
Occasionally I fly new routes
but never load more than
a few hundred passengers.
Nor advance into the sequence
of sky that vibrates behind the sky
I have seen. Never the pilot
undressing in a suburb
when the flight is over.
Pressing an unclosed hand
against a cold bedroom window.