2010

A new beginning,

or the restating

of an old one.

Oh, how fun:

another era, in which to run

to the next.



These years

are wine glasses

thinly punctured.

Each one holds

enough promise,

barely,

til the juncture

into the sequel.



Stagnant.

Instances

equal to prior

everything.

And anything

would do now,

provided,

it freshened.



Somehow,

I surmise,

however,

that like poems

written in

quasi-prose,

its brilliance

is undermined

by the fact

that it's all been done

before.

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