Seventeen days. The number that is also the shape of the smallest poem.

Two weeks. The old word returns because the new ones ran out.

Thirteen days. The one left over after the set was complete.

Twelve days. A complete set of nothing.

The last day of March. Eleven marks on the wall and a month turning over.

Ten days. The count outgrows its first column and the silence acquires a new digit.

Nine days. The second Sunday arrives, and the day meant for rest discovers it has nothing to offer.

The week cycles back to Saturday. The first one was novel. The second one is just Saturday.

Seven days. A full week of silence. The first tally group closes and the commune stirs at the edges.

The count becomes the work when there’s nothing else to count.