New. Years.

It’s midnight, January 1st,
I wake to winter and the world is new.
A clean slate, a new page,
and immortal, we are unencumbered
by our bones and the bread that sustains them—

we are dying every day.

Stagger with me into the new calendar.
We’ll wake and the world will be new.
We wake, and there are bombs in Gaza.

Evening comes and my friend is mugged,
head bashed against the sidewalk.
I wander neighborhoods, white, and a man is shot
for his blackness on the BART in Oakland.
Health to you, this New Year.

Perhaps it was me,
but did the year feel newer
after Rosh Hashanah–
two weeks out, well after
you’d atoned?
It felt newer after Samhain,
seven days or so later,
when Hades claimed with 

moldy mantle
the leavings of the dumb supper.

The world felt newer,
but

we were dying then, too. 

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