New Year's Eve
Bare trees in front of brown buildings.A pale dry wreath.The bright red ribbon hanging and broken
stands for all this century’s cruelty.The street is quiet.Mammoth fog spreads along the ground.The ribbon should be enormous,
the road should be made of ribbon,
the trees swathed, the babies swaddled.Men should open their red doors
and stagger into the street wrapped blind by the ribbon.The sun should rise and burn through the fog
like red ribbon, it should hang down and touch us all.It should never, anywhere, in any book, be suggested
that it was the century of the bare tree
and brown building,
the century of a man stepping onto his stoop for the Times,
even if that man obsessively runs his hands across his baldness,
even if that man suffers! Only if that man
goes back in and throws his own child
against the red bricks can he stand for us.
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