Seven for the New Year

~ after Issa

One screw falls off
the doorbell; it's somewhere
        in the grass, not chiming. 

We no longer write 
checks—no danger now 
        of getting the year wrong.

Colder and colder, but only 
cloudy. We snip lacy
         paper into snowflakes.

Oysters drawn up from
the river depths. Find the hinge
         with the point of a knife. 

It's always easiest after
the yield. Then they slide
         sweet down the throat.

New moon soon after the new
year. Raise a glass with hints
          of oak, cardamom, allspice.

Let's make no resolutions—
after all, we are here.
          Let's be here.