The calendar calls.
the seasons cannot change.
We will remain forever ramshackle,
forever pastoral even in the city,
forever murderous sweet nothings
of Scott Peterson and Amber Frey,
forever this humid humanity,
forever expressionless expressions
of love and disgust and distrust.
Dear days going and gone by—
We do not even mind so much
that you are numbered.
Like butter the sun melts
on your milky fleece.
Carpets flower beneath your hooves.