Outside of Summation, There’s No Regression to the Mean

Not to sum over, not to
Notice much. Not to tote up,
By assumption, the sorrows

Of the years to come. Sorrows
Are likely, but years to come
Are fantasies, no matter

How dark. Not to catalogue
The half-enumerated,
Estimated, unstable

Billions and billions of hands,
On the one, on the other,
Forever and forever,

When there’s no such forever,
Just a lot of yesterdays,
Recent, ancient, absurdly

Ancient in estimation
As the numbers of those hands,
On the one, on the other.