A smoke horse gallops
from a rooftop.
An oversized rabbit follows.
Turning silence.
Some flashes in the distance—
what are they?
And who else is awake
but me, a tired woman
in her white bed-cloud,
hair not brushed,
and skin untouched?
Because it’s the first of
the first month of a new year,
every new second is crucial—
even the noises that bother me,
messages that arrive
too late or too early.
Half of the sky is black,
the other half water.
The city rests, resists.
Headless animals drift
above darkened buildings,
like floats in a slow parade
or the faded army
of December, retreating.
And because it’s too difficult
to think how every other year
has turned out to lash
and laugh and love,
in time, I will stand up
and brush my hair
and meet the new snakes
and among them, find ones to adore
and coil around my neck.