december 13, 2001

This many evenings spiralling into our necks,
the earth a pepper-speck in a dishpan galaxy,
everyone is forty years old today with auburn-dyed hair,
and we sell our cars to survive in the outyears,
yearn wistfully for real-estate never bought,
grow less tempestuous with every tv icon viewed...

When the christmas dudes come trampling and
neighborhoodlums stomp their right to intimidate,
the daylit lake lets go its short-held winter breath
and surrenders into this many evenings
spiralling into our open, forty-year-old necks...