When I count on my fingers I get lost

Who is it reading the maps?

Who is it tracking the dead-end roadspurs?

Who puts the teenage memories to words

And who remembers, wordless, the confusions?

When I count on my fingers I get lost

Somewhere between two and three something comes up

More fingers appear where there were just two

Or I wander off distracted

Worlds are juggled in their see-through skins

One afternoon was everything

I could take the rest of your life

Telling the folds and pockets of one strange housesit

Who is it living this life and that one?

How does that day sit here smack splat in this one?