January 1
Every morning is a shore this one as much as any other Some precipices hold an allure but not this one not anymore
Every morning is a shore this one as much as any other Some precipices hold an allure but not this one not anymore
Day and night, vise-like, bookends to whatever this is. A return? Or stalled momentum. Pieces of salt, like stars, stud the black ice. This year drawn out to its breaking point– a twist of the champagne cork– anticipation is such a terrible ache. And this cold cuts to the bone. Waiting for a word, a sign, breath suspended in the frigid air, and fingers gone numb, only hurting when they touch something warm– a loss […]
Twelve grapes at midnight washed down with champagne one for love and one for hatred one for kindness and one for relentlessness one for luck and one for persistence one for hope and one for remembrances one for going and one for staying and in all its sweetness and for all its bitterness another two for love