Sunday, January 1, 2017


every year the bed seems best
to represent the state
of future, past, and present
the murder of the moment
self asserting sense
but not this one.

Lately in the winter I take the toll of summers
the first, the second, five years past
this unconsidered march of that-was-thens
my friends

But it's the Januarys holding like a bowl
my cat, 9 years, a child, but my whole life
the first poem is a first it's been so long
and each considers itself and hopes to move on
from there perhaps my age, my loves
the happiness of years that do not split
no flight of birds two thousand and eleven