The billionth digit of Pi is 9,
The last month without a full moon,
February, 1865—
This morning I am making a list
Of the last lines of parables
About the work of numbers, about
Calculations, marking the speed
With which blood travels, as if three feet 
Per second were like the blessings
On the late workers in a vineyard
Or a son just home from living with swine.

Someone continues the division
That computes the decimals of Pi—
He is telling a story, numerals
Spilling out toward infinity,
The counting a language, a life 
Beyond this one, as difficult 
To believe as the number of hours 
We’ve slept together, darkness returning
And vanishing, the moments, nightly,
Between your breaths, the hesitations 
In your deep sleep; my own held breath, 
Listening, and then, temporarily 
Relieved, turning toward the window, 
Reciting the autonomic lesson 
Of your lungs that swell and shrink
At last, in rhythm, their vital 
Capacity, in liters, 3.1.