Infinity is not a number

I’ve never been any good
at mathematics

but I imagine a field
whose purpose is to define

what lies in the field—
or sets off the grass

that grows there
from the grass elsewhere.

And the clover, a slurry
of stones; the goats

and their hard raisin trail
of poop. The long-legged horses,

cows flicking their tails
at gnats. Number them

if you wish: the gnats,
the cows, their rank catalogue

of irregular black and white spots.
Infinity, I’ve been told,

isn’t any of these countable facts
but more like some unseen wind

or a hum that surges through
the electric fence. Add

to it or take away from it:
its quantity remains the same.

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