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11, 12

January 1, 2012


despite the desire for sudden shift,

like the air changing colour on the stroke of midnight

(although that’s perhaps what the fireworks are about)


when the smoke clears

and the party subsides,

it’s only the incremental mysterious mechanical number change,

ever increasing the wager,

turning the dial.


an hour passes, and then a day,

a year, and we spin on a point, twisting upwards along the thread

ever revolving

ever evolving

gathering dust and shedding dust,

walking tall and crawling under the wire

and acknowledging our compadres

trudging through their own fields


taking a moment to consider our spot,

our path,

and its miscellaneous intersections;

a concentration of goodwill, charge of luck and ignition of fate,

as we slip across

the click of the clock

along the thread of our life


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