NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION

At the quietus 

of an old year, let this be 

my decree:

only that I 

be patient—resolute 

as the trees

which stand mangled 

by wind, 

tickled by cold rains, 

or insulted by sleet

which forgets

how to slow.

For I too am exposed  

to every whim

of this climate;

I too 

sometimes dream 

on my feet

of flocks in formation

with their beaks

at true north, 

or the vulnerable shapes

of those first buds 

in April. 

THE RULES

In the free market 

future 

your favorite 

TV show envisions, 

our isolation

counts 

as a pre-existing condition;

sex-workers 

talk jargon 

because intimacy 

is cheap and too quick-

ly dismissed,

and "numbing-out" 

is finally considered 

a good thing—

synonymous not 

with desensitization, 

but a healthy respect 

for the hard work 

of avarice. 

*

Maybe in reality, 

the rules 

of engagement 

by which 

we had governed our 

most successful wars

were not as fixed 

as we'd previously 

been assured;

rather, they existed

as a random pastiche 

of late night show monologues, 

Lenten confessionals, 

memorized stump speeches,

and Shakespearean soliloquies 

overhead, truncated,

scrutinized to pieces, 

then placed into a hat

to be taken out 

of context.

SPRUNG FEELING

Like rats 

in their mazes, 

or fish in the ocean,

so much emotion 

is trapped 

inside language. 

But when we try 

to free the anguish

enmeshed in our speeches

or crack the vast 

lightness that's 

stored in our poems, 

the outcomes 

are more than a little 

lackluster; 

for the sprung feeling 

can't last where it 

doesn't belong, 

and it soon 

retreats back to the 

refuge of its prison—

the only other option 

being: certain 

suffocation. 

SYMPATHY FOR A PANDEMIC

Perhaps this virus

isn't just trolling us;

perhaps, like an 

overtaxed capitalist or 

reformed absent father, 

it's touring us 

by the millions, 

desperate to find 

the consummate 

picturebook vacation home—

a respite from the cold 

of its walking-

dead existence, 

a substitute 

for the warm hearth

(pathetic as that is).

And perhaps, 

minute after minute, 

its zombie hopes 

are dashed afresh, 

as it checks in 

to another one,

kicks off its shoes

in a bid to relax, 

and takes a blithe 

look around—

only to find 

it's got nothing 

but clones 

of itself to spend 

time with. 

NOCTURNE FOR THE END OF THE YEAR

All of your crowded 

desolate days

now stand bruised  

behind X's on the calendar.

It figures: only on the verge of this 

next reincarnation

does all of your deep-

frozen hope start to crack.

In the next room, revelers 

move strangely to boiler-plate music,

but right now, it's you 

who feels clunky, underwater—

as if, somehow you've waded 

too deep in a lake,

waiting for their searchlights, 

flair guns, or sirens;

but nobody cries out 

to warn of your mistake; 

no person jumps 

up and down on the shore;

no one, with arms waved, is 

calling you back.

NEW YEAR'S EVE

Already, I see it's getting late.

Soon, I must head out 

to rake and gather

all that I've done 

and failed to do 

together; 

and, without separating 

one from the other, 

to set fire to the bunch—

hear the words pop,

watch the deeds crackle.

For only then can I resume

my odd processes

of writing notes to myself 

and making friends 

idle promises 

in the purified, ashen, desolate space 

which another December's

conflagration opens up.

NEW YEAR'S POEM

For all the anticipation, 

the end

is so sudden;

we are thrust

at the future, like drunks 

at grim dawn.

And the bracing scents

of pine and fir needles

offer little consolation 

when the sky here 

is almost as besotted 

as the ground.

Back in summer, we 

felt certain—in autumn, 

unconfined—

the hand we held

was perfect; the love we had

was sound.

Now, starved for light,

in a surplus 

of seclusion—

amid gift cards,

bright carols, infusions

of wine—all we want 

is to find our way back; 

all we need 

is more time.