The juniper trees
drape their dry leaves over
the sidewalk and

the pale blue
berries drop like fine pearls
of pin-prick

blood-crumbs that
never met the kiss of
air to blush

them. Lining themselves
in the seams between sidewalk
squares, they file

like beads of
an adding abacus against the
fall of my

feet, I count
1,2,3,4,5
5,4,3,

2,1,0,
a,b,c,d,e
e,d,c

b,a. I
count towards some slippery infinity,
forwards and backwards,

I count on
my walk to the post
office and back,

forwards and backwards,
retracing my honest stupid steps
forwards and backwards,

counting to nothing.