sestina, baby

Levy

The hurricane swamped in the heat of late August.
And rain dissolved the last binding papers.
It ran things wet into gutters while we arranged
Our steps to avoid parking lot puddles in an order,
Heels up, around exacting white lines. I counted
the seconds we stood under a red umbrella. A number,

Thirty-six, led me to eight, twenty-eight, numbers
Like nine that repeated after the flood of August.
Later, I sat on carpet in front of the TV and counted
The total times a reporter lost papers
In Louisiana wind. I wanted to give her some order,
An anchor in the surge that she could arrange

Herself around, tie herself to. Instead I arranged
Paper clips in the neutral fibers of our carpet, numbering
Them in parallel placements of two, planning to order
The boxes I packed after the final days in August.
And now in the sweat of an attic, I look through papers
Bound together with metal clips and try not to count

How many times the word plaintiff discounts,
in absolute dissolution, the single arrangement
I couldn't make. As if by forgetting the papers
And focusing on the one after one of numbers,
In neat stacks of attic things I no longer hold august,
I might somehow escape this disorder.

My hand in trash plastic, attempts to make order
Out of photographs and letters too many to count.
Until in a bead of sweat, I realize that it is August
And too hot to calculate in an attic. I arrange
my descent on the wood ladder, and my toes number
ten. Two less than the month, I notarized papers.

When I reach the ground, I study the newspaper
Column by column, printed words with no order.
Its alphabet squalls in circular motion; no number
I know remembers me, who once on him counted
To empty the trash in my hands. An arrangement
Unspoken, made two Septembers before August

When a number of ours witnessed us recount
some solemn story. An arrangement by order
Sealed only on paper. Today, I hold nothing in august.