Monday, December 29, 2014

Things Falling from Shelves

There is no way to read a calendar,
one without neatly plotted squares of dates;
No month as header, nor year to track

Blanks on paper, unwritten appointments;
Untallied time spent on scheduled tasks

We live in flux, in vague hand gestures
And inside each head a lifetime lives

In a single inhale of wintry cold, the emptiness of its smell,
I recall mortuary calls and one-person beds;
No other person knows these secrets of December.