I am not anxious to see
the insides of the coming year.
But here it is. It is an old sunrise,
the same sun exploding again and again.
The light is tired. My hands are tired.
It doesn’t matter how little I want.

The rose bush moans
in the wind, are its thorns enough
to break the tension of the window.
Snow hides in the southern shade.
Most of the time I remember
to breathe. To pull until my lungs crack.
There is evidence of decay.

I still play with knives. Flipping
them into the air hoping for an even rotation.
I offer you the handle, throw it at me,
I am soft.