I count the grains of sand in the photo of us
smiling on the beach
and the ones made into glass
shaping.

One for each that I wash my hands of
when I do the dishes
and one for each time
I think of love

and one for the sand
flying in the desert
where the bombs thud
that one day
will have coated this house
in historic shame.

As I place them in separate piles
-the ones I have and have not catalogued-

the multitude of them transforms me
just as the turning earth
transforms each day.

Until such time as I shall pass them on
-my job still incomplete,
though I wash and wash away-

their increasing numbers multiply
the thoughts that fill the air
around these words,

as each word
written down and counted
inspires me to lose my place
and start again.

2/12/01.