The Year of Elisions

Happy New Year, after a year like no other
Photo: Matt Hoffman via Unsplash

It is December
in the year of elisions
the vowels of feeling
have been lost to fit the metric poverty
the 300,000 lost in the leaps
across the lines of this absurdly
obtuse ekphrasis
that only seems to be buying time for the
entrance of a goddess floating on sea foam
or an excuse for a thunderstorm or
a blizzard and a snow day.

But it is sunny here, mockingly warm
like someone is trying to make
the syllables rhyme with the pain
in a cruel joke of the jesting poltergeist
chasing me over and over
around the pond.

We all lose something to the meter
an adjective, a cautious hope, or an expected verb;
they lie like all the socks lost to the washing machine
in a pile just beyond our
sense of reason.

We can only smell for them from where we stand
and put on the abandoned sock
and walk the wooden floors into a new year,
leading with the decent one the lagging bareness
of the other.

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