I am thinking of a new kind of year.
As the late year folded down
old behind the last range,
red and thin, flapping in the hard winter wind,
I clapped my hands -
a new idea.
I waited, not speaking a word to any soul,
not even you,
until the sun blushed its sphere
and sank. Until the last spot of light winked.
Until the dimming sky screamed,
ripped the last pink
gauze off the dying thing and slapped it
back into the universe, I waited,
every inch of my skin bristling -
and when the old man howled and collapsed back,
and the sky said "Ma cosa fai?"
I replied "I am inventing again."