at last, another poem

A poem I wrote while unable to concentrate on the multitude of things I needed to get done... Hope all of you are well.

MY IMAGINATION RUNS IN SOLITARY LESS-THANS

One: my life knows moments—
Yeses and Nos and Hangons—these, where a mind sticks,
keep rule. Too many
lungs stop breathing in a single second
to count all of them, to conceive
the Number. A Number—but, who conceives
Numbers? Who holds them in
their brains anymore?
A prodigy? A rain man? A man, a woman?
Or, a child who waters
his potted plant thinking only
about the 57 leaves, the 13 stems,
the probability of white
fertilizer pellets in a black mass
of wet soil. Calculators can't figure
quite this fast. What is yet
a second—made from thousands
of individuals’ own seconds—infinite
in possibility? chaos? Or all
known, counted, remembered,
undivided by A? Who is A?