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 several second of time,
Some billion 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 burning words cut them
With a fine layer of flake-gold, gathering in tear-ducts, perhaps
to fall, or not to fall, and rest there aching;
Perhaps the year rang loss
Echoing out through 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 fared little pain
Beyond the tearings of new 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 full of clothes
onto the bed and black out