It is Our Year.
I could see it from afar, from the sidewalk
in winter, lined with yellow berries and bare forsythia,
ice creeping up the driveway, the big
sky stretched over blue mailboxes--
It is ours. Fate happens automatically, a clockwork
precision, the colors get bolder. Especially the golds.
Flashing utility lights, caution tape, streetlamps' halos
spreading out though December mists. Headlights
in a parade, solemn, humming, carrying double-lanterns East.
si fas est,
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