That long short year showed me who I was
But not who I wasn’t.
That long short year dictated how far
My ability to grasp for identity could reach.
Lying awake, clutching at fragments of instants
Hoping they would still be there when
The silent sun came knocking:
Those inquisitive buttons on a half-sewn coat
Wondering who they would envelop in an
Obligatory embrace;
Silken hands shaping silhouettes of feet that
Contemplated the dark emptiness of their
Abyssal interior;
Trudging through the snow we wondered
If winter ended and gave way to a summer
Of realization or an eternity
Of questions.
This long short day is an unruly cluster
Of many long short years
Clasped together with pieces of familiarity.
