Orange swirling flame of days,
sizzle like moth wings,
crackle after the blazing dies.
So much of any year is flammable,
only the things I didn’t do
transparent scarlet paper,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space. Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
marry the air.
constructed from : Burning the Old Year
