January

All these Januarys dissolve in the water-glass of my mind.
As time drains away, they lie grains in the sediment
of my memory.

The last of the year trickles out, come and gone
and I grasp at the hope of the glass filled to the brim anew,
awash in possibility.
“This is the year,” I might say, “where happiness
conjoins with reality to birth at last
joy, in my own circumstance,”
—before all evaporates
in its own time.

New year.