Not really all that invited

Or, December 30th

That which is coming to ripen

laughs,

throwing

forward like a shadow

its own decay. Okay.

We knew that.

Knew, too, that the heart's body

gets so invested

in the rhythms it's invented,

the rest is lost.

What is lost?
Certainly

this
one
here.

Which, having only

its particular incompleteness

to offer,

offered it entirely.

Lost.

Though toward its backward future

one

can keep

throwing

the guess-shadow.

Angling the mirror

so all its purposeful

wayward

twist-fingered hands

are toward

this

here,

reaching.