I count the apples on my abacus.
My abacus with one bead.
The fallen law and the ripening law.
The law of multiplication.
I count the seasons in each orchard,
the orchards in each apple.
The law of what continues.
A pickup slaps the wet of the bridge.
It’s Sunday, rendered in black and white.
The migrant workers are napping, their children
play hide-and-seek, passing in and out
is making a film about them,
with the sound of their laughter