THE 31ST OF DECEMBER
On this last day, the wide sky spotless—
the sun, lustrous clementine,
our finest winter fruit.
Visible breaths, souvenirs of the old year:
gone over the Eastern Plains,
over the dried corn,
the ice.
~
We trek westward, upward,
over the pass, snow fields like topaz
where light struggles back
through the drifts.
We pronounce the peaks, pointing:
Tabeguache,
Shavano,
Antero.
Sunlit beasts, steeper
than we remember, syllables
turning sharp inside our mouths.
~
This year, like last year,
hovers over a vow, hesitates
before the toothed horizon.
We stop and turn for words
like look and wait and what.
For the wind a wall through which
only our bodies can pass.
For the truth tumbling back.
For these stumps of sentences.
TYPO
30
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