to rip this new year from its shiny packaging,
inhaling its plasticy scent from stem to stern
and grope its sleek newborn skin.
No, no--I must
cut through its surface layers
to its core,
to the meat of it all,
where the epicenter beats like a tiny, hopeful drum.
The pulsing rhythm is just
a whisper now, a promise
But soon, I will find the middle
and release the song.
The notes will drip down my chin
And my mouth will be filled
with sweet nectar,
sending celestial bursts
that shine for a brief moment
and fade down, down
finally becoming absorbed by
the well-worn fabric of my heart
