January, dry as cotton the moon lit up
Arrival is much slower, contoured as
Nothing is, eventually
Underwear folded like a white shabby package
And perpendicular streaking light gravitates to its similitudes
Remainders, shorn. The sun, incrementally, pleats the
Yangtze, the handwriting.
February, formally exhaled, elated, now exhausted
Evidence of snow forthcoming somewhere
Unbidden winterish traces of Brigid
A doll in her husk
Reading, not reading, reading, not reading
Youíre glad itís short, like a secret once told.
March, more slightly of everything
Accurately as mud or shadows
Remember those other memories?
China plates in a box, chilly
Hallways, a brain.
Aprilís anterior, huh?
Preparations, preparations, also Passover
Relegating duties to whom?
Instances of accumulated
May is ridiculously hot, sometimes
And always unfocused, somehow, like a
Younger self adrift in an adornment of waste.
Juneís famously busy
No! cried the bride and groom simultaneously
Enough of promises.
July is vertical like a transmission
Underneath which we crawl
Languorously complaining in
Yellowish sweaty frenzies.
August is Januaryís secret cousin
Undone undones Ėwell, undone
Sweet, scary, sentient, slightly
Sad + enthusiastic September
Things of September
More mellow, maybe
Only cold in the morning, October
November is nearly