New Year’s Day

The first winter was composed of sleeping,
flower-like, but this second is like prowling
the gap between feeling and thinking;
limbering up the dawn, unscarfed, uncoated,
with my head like a getaway bag, hastily packed,
a floppy trammel of tossed lists: lists of lies
told and believed that have since
turned into calcitrate in unsunned cloisters,
and I should know the dawn because I've seen it,
and I should know the gap because I populated it
with crows and left-behind items of clothing.
It was like dismantling a spiral staircase
step by step, leaving a sequence of hollows
stripped of the season's riverly cadence.
So I have myself to blame for this desolate winter,
because I thought I could be solved by the same process
by which we build bridges to unnamed places:
one slimy brick before the other, incomprehensibly;
forever imposing axiom upon axiom onto that plane
until the equinoctial day it answers back.



Megan Towey