The year, like ice
glints hard with newness.
For some its smooth shine
for others a skid, a spike

But all of us
bustled with resolve
wearing only forward faces
boxed and hauled
our backs, at last,
to the curb

to the ridiculous gifts still sealed
to the chipped, resented inheritances
to the mouldering, the broke-spined
the elastic-gaped and mothbit

If they dreamed of mending
that fashion or favor might turn
if they could not help
their worn, their wrong, their
wastefulness—
well, what else could we do?

Like the year, we are hard
we are rid.
But in the dawn
before the collector comes
we are still wounded
by their faithfulness
how even now they wait
patient, passive
liable for our
lack of love.