A New Year’s Landscape

It’s of the bird call
The bruising of wind, the pasted clouds, the promise of mountains
On a plane that curves infinitely backwards
the way years seem to bend over themselves
in a constant recurrence of voices
and objects and places and dreams
dredged up from the bottomless sea of ourselves
we wished to vault over once.

But now, again, the birds call,
The years move under us.
(1 January 2016)

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Pointing out (31 December)

Burning the year waiting for skipped beats,
your ear held ajar against the bass line
holding out for the drummer’s slip, any fumble
added to your catalogue of others’ errors
fuels your compilation, jukebox list of
enduring complaints become your year in review
we expect, accept, all the haunting imperfections
these recollections claw away with tell-tale
rhythm, eye rolls, lukewarm laughter, a snort
of self-inflating contempt, your immolation.