I am not making too many resolutions this year except to begin a novel, write at least ten poems I am proud of, be a better daughter, and not spend so much time on the internet. I will also finish reading The Aeneid. I am going to be attentive to my writing life.
Today is the last day of 2011. Tomorrow is the first day of a new year. This poem is not one of the 2012 ten. It is only the last poem I'm writing in 2011. Well, I think so anyway. There are still a few hours left. So much could still happen.
It’s already 2012 and I know too many souls
who won’t stop reading me
about the end of the world. How twelve months from now,
it will finish. Everything will finish.
With solar storms and supervolcanoes, there’ll be a rebalancing
of the universe, the dispensation of all
consciousness. All I can do is open my hands, show them
its palm and wrist, the blue rivers running
with fish, their surfacing almost a kind of forensic
defense. A prediction becoming visible. Open my hand
to catch the leaf, the ball, the full weight of light
thrown down on top of me. We all know too many souls who say
live every day like its the last. Tell them, find me
Jeremy Schwartz, even one soul who will make a fire hot enough.