One, 1, None... 2012-03-14 (Sixth Draft)
Geof Huth (Albany, NY, USA)

See a seen.
A shape inviolate
of wonder often has possi
bilities unthought.
Numbers expressed are
an orb extended. Rays
recall an orches
tral set. The musician
can do whatnot, exploring

To restrict
districtthem, a scattered
cantata, a tested symbology,
two beautiful songbirds are wrapped,
caged, &

freed, released to
extension, allowed
room, extrapola
ting that value
ed via

motions, thoughts,
a simple cusp,

intent of accident,
stasis in

glorious manifests,
englobing, arousing,
merged in, entirely

one. That becoming, an
ocean via duct:
to 3, 4counted,

adding reality, intention,
removing it, a

Subtlety moving around, a
way, to convince, to see . . . .

fisher, finder, what fingers

eradicate, and foreskin,
just what oceans

encompass: beach, reach,

tense reaction to it.
Was I enraged by
seven or seventeen ways?

Relative I be, relative were
numerals: 9, 8, 7. Forever
were these

to encroach from 1

to another,

a resistant sea, ecstatic sways,
to a 1.

Waves, waves, waves,
undulants, silver that must always
be as blackened

suns, constant, radiating, cooled,
thus penumbral and

and opening a
carefully formed hole into
an expected movement. A

signifier extends every motion
(motion again). Destitute, our aim
must then reveal a
or numerous ways
(version sings slowly)
that meanings be
all our febrile reaction
feebly creates. Dawdling,
and a motion moves
on several: I am

a dispersed,

disturbed, a
lost pearl, wrecked,
taut, achingly found.
Reveal, dispel ponderous
or, say, just limpid

that sickened, waste

fast depth that can be little,
little more
tortured by 1 way,
our injurious way:

Scented, an orange,

or even essential,
a same, O, an olfacto
ry way, distant, to
even fewer memories,



for a sense, hints,
a hurried time,
a fever to


scents, to
remember, to
an often made

reversion, a
version, a verse for
vision, made for
simple hungers,
handmade, burnished,
or piled

our motion


a 1
for our


manys have

For the sixth time, I work on my piem, a poem based on the numeral that make up pi, the title in three words for the whole number 3 (but in number of characters for its usual designation as 3.14), and the poem itself based on the infinite working out of that fraction that is the strange focal point of our obsessive interest in pi. Each word in a piem has the number of letters as a value of a numeral in pi, and the zeros are represented by strophe breaks. This poem itself is about numbers and perception. Somehow I make it an intelligible poem, but one that takes a little effort to ingest and digest. I write this piem only on Pi Day, March 14th (3/14, 3.14).

ecr. linf.