3 finches—is normally about where
I loose count, on my way
toward another conjectured infinity.
Strange: stability of 2s, so wrecked; each balanced
couple in the juniper branches put to death-
by-addition—of a flawless, self-sufficient 1.
Yet, how much more perfect?—all of the deepest
and most far-flung mysteries of the universe, must have
begun like this: manyness, oddness, indivisibility.