Cold sun it snarks the seagulls leave, I'm on the peninsulitic vista having brought in the new year. Brown leaves, and a little dog with its man astir On the road to fitness, the beach side path, with mother Peach pink and gray with a black liedown stroller, Sweet child within, sleeping beneath the takeoff planes And a flag of fifty states — rock gray, rock brown, small city. Someone says: "Going to the pharmacy," Someone's eyes touch mine and I don't speak, I'm nervous — it must have been the smell of the trashcan, It must have been poor parking lot planning, something is off, Something I hadn't seen, something I haven't seen yet. I am overcome. The year ahead a long car ride home. These panoramas exchanged in mind-mobbed circles Of private moments will arrive back in the mailbox A few months from now, as soon the absent existent Adrift in slouch-walk — the employee, the "mailman" — Drops them off. I'll think: "Soon this all might be done by drones, Who will apportion out automated prophecy on time. Their warehouses Of dread and joy unpacked at intervals, and no need to see it Coming because it will already be here." Machine-perfect, this coming year. At home the cat leaps not at toy or game But surprise the oddly unavoidant creature Extends his arm, sharp claw-fingers stretched, In a strangely human gesture over my stomach — He asks for a warm spot to rest, the beast previous Now that time has passed — how long has it been? — Admits himself at last domesticated success. Or, almost — he still can scratch. Already the house is in For crawling ant-life at the start of the season, Which happened overnight — it's Spring, The real start of the year. It begins.
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