January, I met you last in sober resolve
a bet with my conscience lost
by February
that month frivoled and forgotten as masked March set
and days to weeks to months later
April disappeared with her disasters
and in May they bloomed bloody
a vicious, unfolding pattern
then June, an inverse of her former selves, was stoned and indignant
a domino of vile days marching on through soggy July
whose dearth of freedoms at least held me a version of close
toward August, where I rose as a meekly kindled long-dead flame
returned again, never yet done, and on
through something like September
I let creep in a loneliness heartier than any fall former
until October erupted
withered and giving, I found life in a sour wine start
still, an ending, and leapt into a fog of weeks,
a queasy November, and finally December
found footing on soft ground and now
another January rises, her life unknown and familiar
together and thicker and simpler and my
conscience without for once, bound beyond myself
for another year around some sun
as and with and for someone

One thought on “foresight

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