The calendar calls.

Without you

the seasons cannot change.

We will remain forever ramshackle,

forever pastoral even in the city,

forever eggs,

forever afternoon,

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.