Oracular Wheel

How did we come around
so quickly again
to this seemingly same
place of beginning?

It is and isn’t
the same time last year—
It’s this year’s monkey
waiting in the wings,

hair bristles made
of metal, more slippery
than the skins of fruit
he shucked then lobbed

onto the patio.
We used to be much
quicker at recovering
the hard bright bits

that hid inside
the ripened pericarp—
Howling at the moon, we jumped
on and off the hobo trains

of death, barely skirting
sickness, sleeping with one
eye open; catching the tails
of lucky fish as they flew by.

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