New Year ’17

The tv counts down to a slight delay –
the sun’s condensing hammer
and the earth’s revolving bourse
sinking us like concrete pillars
into the wet earth, grey and flaking.
For one multiplying second of time,
some billions of times, this second
takes its place amongst the others,
crumbling under our thoughts.
Each swollen moment by these alchohol lives
is chorused with hoarse voices;
Burn’s words cut them with a layer of flake-gold,
gathering in tear-ducts, perhaps
to fall, or not to fall, and rest there aching;
Perhaps the year rang out loss
echoing through the companionable air
Dulling and blunting,
’til the whole resembled the part.
Perhaps you were uncomfortable.
Now metal-faced staring at the past to forget
though it may be argued
the latter year bore little pain
beyond the tearings of news-paper,
to our routine streets at least.
Tonight some of us take upon ourselves
the wrongs and sorrows of the earth
as if they were our flesh and blood –
and they are.
So too are the vast outnumbering joys
from time to time to time
each year which guide us
and a creeping enjoyment –
I permit you to dwell on them.
And we can muddle
’til the morning, and the year fall
in their clothes
onto the bed and black out
again.

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