The Year of Form

Days unspool. I’m tired of reeling
them in, collecting memories in recursive coils

like copper wire or magnetic tape. What beauty
there was, let it pass along with whispered nights

of loosened hair, with late summer’s gloaming over hayfields,
with sounds of London streets rising through the open window

of an insomniac flat. Forgetfulness will settle old scores, square
loves, requited or not. So let there be no reconciling,

no reckoning of what was with what comes next.
Let a repetition of newness be the form practiced daily, perfected

as winter mornings give way to greening spring. Eyes unclouded
by the past, not squinting toward the future, take in

the first lift of dawn over the lake
with the intensity of hatred, the immediacy of love.