Pirouette

Another year comes and pirouettes

twirls once, twice, and then leaves the stage
without making time for elaborate
recaps, without the clichéd, set
speeches that fall grandly off the page;

 

the last of the mornings draws to a close

behind an amorphous mist of rooftops
behind the naked trees, and winter shows
of merry red blooms, and jingling radios
and pushy red signs in the malls and shops;

 

somewhere the leaf-drop of terrible news;

the scream of a shell fossilised into stone.
Soft mollusc insides of lives torn, the livid bruise
of blood in stinging brine, the wounded queues,
the bubbles of pain, each cruising alone.

 

But the vicious trickle of viscous black despair

still gets stoppered by the crumbly cork
of shaky hope, and love pricks it everywhere
and breaks the quick-formed crust over its layer.
The new year comes in with its turns and torque.