It is a two-faced god
who keeps this gate,
eyes to see what’s gone, what comes
what works through northern nights
as snoring plows clear drifted
passages from there to here
or exhales into humid southern days
the cranky thunderstorms declaring
it is early, it is late.
Beginning is beginning once again—
the gate swings open, Janus grants
another chance, a cleaner slate.
The little wink of possibility
presents itself: all could be more.
The little hiss turns velvety,
whispers: amen, encore…
Downtown, the promise of
perfection has turned heads;
there is a running towards it
on the woodsy paths at dawn
and all along the streets; some
even now, in sweaty rooms, tread
somewhere, doggedly, ahead
ahead, as ground slips
backward underneath their feet.