Integer

I tried to think of colors,
or a place that would embody a poem
one day, in the event that I lose
the chance for words;

a tree seemed too simple,
but a worthy candidate
as the forest thinned its limbs
to the sun
like futile arms
in the sighs of future buildings.

And then it was too complex,
and green sufficed,
or maybe blue, or whatever color
broke out into the sky.

I then tried to summon what feeds
on everything it comes across
like water to a desert-fiend;

began to wonder
what a minuend would be
if not the razor backed edge
of a number,
but the crumbling of cells
rationing themselves
piece by piece to the elements
of time as it sorts infinities,
I being nothing
but what escapes me.