whose bread is a Target run
and whose circus is social media.
As January freezes fragile
in the first few days
I am easily allowed
to change my mind
because I am dying
but aren’t we all?
The calendar is still innocent
the future is still smooth
like the sounds wasps make
before they fight the bees for the flowers.
I used to not chronicle the hours
with strong drink
and vast ignorance,
but now my commitment
to the days fades less easily.
And though I may be doomed, too,
I begin the page blank
and end it covered in blood.