Perhaps a new year
only exists to show
the widening gap
between the what was
and what now is

the quiet reminder
that you go in differing directions,
but they all come with fog,
an unease you'll never shake,
a gloat, an unheard word,
a point of view you don't

waste your eyes with.
You are older now,
your youth only a faded,
bitter tang.

rise early
mist the first murmurings of morning
and the blue
smudged by a finger
to a dusty half-purple
half-nectarine sky where the perfect
blot of post-Christmas sun welcomes us

commas of snow
like the night shedding its skin
a chill coating our throats
but each inhalation a gift
a lungful of life

I.

unlikely there'll be
a white Christmas once again
when was the last time?

---

II.

streets are quite empty
but inside trees remain up
Brussels sprouts steaming

---

III.

socially distant
but there's a sprinkle of cheer
at these trying times

Down to this,
exposure that we, or just I,
never saw coming, for this did not exist

when I acted, chaotic and clueless
so long ago the memory
has puddle-warped around the edges.

Who for? To titillate the roving pupils
of a stranger, to express for a transitory
thrill, the static image your donation.

Now the ache in the stomach, latent
for years, spreads again, dull and stubborn,
my silly heart bruised in a way

these words cannot explain.

Every time a resuscitation;
what you have given me, always as if new,
the gift of a pulse to trigger mine,

your touch a rare, true thing,
exquisite among the dust
of a thousand expired days,

like a flame that scolds the frost,
your kiss the echo
in my creaking crucible.

If this is to be the rest of it
then your fingers
must be against my skin

like I am a delicate instrument
you are handling as though
it is an unexpected present,

but you already know
the correct notes, in the right order,
how to awaken me.

Thumb digs in,
removal of skin,
gashes expose closed fist
of moon wedges.

   Tug and tug,
   **** but for a sinewy
   plaque over the shell,
   a balled-up animal, perhaps.

Then the split,
extraction of organs,
furrowed foliage
all the same,

   a little damp
   in your palm,
   pouches of muscle and blood,
   broad, toothless smiles.

and it rings, and rings,
each shrill chirrup like a triumph;
your defeat, multiplied.

This is my own unanswerable riposte. A month,
almost, has passed. I know it’s you.
Once, accidentally, in a frantic, slapstick
dash from the bath, I made the blunder
and your voice slipped into my ear.
Your pitiable way of saying it was a mistake.
I presented you silence, gift-wrapped for free,
dripped back to the tub, each wet glyph
another step away from our despicable was.

Still, it rings.
I imagine them as punches to you,
not soft blows but great, leaden thumps,
a ricochet of knuckles on cheeks,
of these rings off from the walls
I deliberately, deliciously ignore.

Every quarter hour, a jolt,
a quick think of is this childish.
After all, at this hour and age,
must I resort to letting this black reptile
hark for my attention, coffees
gone cold, the LPs supermarket-queued
on the table we bought
with your mother's vouchers.

But yes. It rings, again,
I have lost count now the times.
I know it’s you.
The hour hand
pokes ten, the dog twitches
in its pool of sleep.
Still, darling, I provide my answer.