They Say It’s New

He crackles the air in big fist because it is turning, the night’s spine and the fast floor of last year is now the wall of this Those cracks should be flowers but there is no light nor lights in the windless binnacle strewn a slow rate of thought in the broad attention What is shorn to say and then to leave awake in the sleep, the pen without its cap the numbers that will harm if not arrayed The windows are not blank, the dark not empty but solid as the mask held loose before the eyeless active ridden hive The sounds of the mind entire are the wind below at the valley floor then a thumping above as of rocks at work painting the wall Turn out the lights and think invisibly stain the turn of time and hear the year before it’s there