‘THE SOUL IS A NUMBER MOVING BY ITSELF’ –Aristotle, De Anima
It is not cold at the top of the stairs.
The years strike like radium drops.
There is a little door, there is a little lock,
There are many good machines whose purposes are lost.
In the plump and tidy cabinets
The red drawers are full of numbers
Irrational and fairly simpering,
While the white drawers have numbers
Imaginary and drifting,
And I am one of those.
Oh, the furnace wheezes, the charwoman sweeps,
The wood sighs and settles and the dormouse sleeps
Don’t try to look at me directly.