Warm-up

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