Zodiac without the Methodical Ox

Is this the Year of the Rabbit, the Year of Luck?
The thing about years is, you’ll be going along, thinking

this must be the Year of the Dog, then suddenly find 
it’s the Year of the Beard and the Pickup Truck,

another year of sand dunes and slowly sinking.
The thing about years is, they have a mind of their own,

a knack for renaming, for flatly remaining, when everything 
you’ve built has filled in with cracks, when it’s so damn cold

your jaw won’t open and your dried-out eyes don’t focus. So 
what? So years pile up like dusty records, and sooner or later

the stack collapses under its silent, unplayed weight. 
So we can’t climb trees or eat spicy food late at night.

So let this be the Year of No Apologies. Claim a fire engine’s right- 
of-way. If you step in front of me, blame your own recklessness

for what happens next. Or can we somehow manage to share 
this shrinking space? Here we are, up to our necks in branches

and animal shapes. I just ate a chocolate ox. I found my book 
but lost my place. Tomorrow we’ll call this the Year of the Bore,

then put on new socks and turn the page. The thing 
about years is, they’re long, but they’re made up of days.

Read more from Issue 16.2.