Counting Sheep

I count to try to get myself to sleep

the numbers backward from one hundred

as someone told me was the way, with sheep

ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six…

then if I reach zero, still backwardly

begin to count forward again

minus one, minus two, minus three…

each exhalation a ewe or wether

stepping from the exit planks, each one

a whisper of breath across my tongue

In a month, as I calculate,

I’ll unload three thousand or so,

in a year at least thirty, and in two 

my ghost shipment could be at last be free

but something always happens

the numbers oscillate

exits turn into boarding ramps

the ships always depart

the sweltering days at the Equatorial, dry

heat over the Gulf

the acrid water washing the baking deck

the sea-mad crew, the dying lambs

the bodies sinking in the fleece-white wake

On a good night I’ll count almost none

or lose track after forty or so, my thoughts 

straying, or one 

or another of them wandering off

to watch the kelp in the tide-flow

On a bad night I’ll count four or five hundred

and get no sleep at all