which is categorically the best kind
of end poem. Not by choice; by absence
of leaving. This year, we learned about
detritus, Tik Tok algorithms, how to trace
the leavings-behind of extra ordinary
creatures. Our oldest cat, once
a neighborhood apex predator, has
had her butthole shaved for hygienic.
Let the new year grant us all some kind
of discretion. Last night, I followed
a bright light emerging from over
the mountaintop even though it did not
explode like I had once hoped.
There are things that make you believe
and things that require faith. Fireworks
are both. Or neither. There is an irony
to the sacrifice of air quality for
combustion. History has shown itself
a series of small explosions,
disappearance of bubbly liquids.
I guess that makes us the detritus, snow
accumulating in waves at the feet.
The world is full of oxymorons: covalence,
cold beaches, the way water can be both
round and spicy. The understanding of
language as a concerted effort among two
or more idiots. No poet has yet unearthed
a suiable synonym for sky. Scientists have
discovered why some people can smell
an approaching storm. It is still a mystery
that others choose to write about it.
There is joy in retrospect, I think;
we just haven’t written it yet. Here:
This morning, the smoke has gone
somewhere else. Things are looking
up because that is where we have
arranged our gaze. Intention is both
the herd and grazed field. Sky scented
purple. It is as good a time as any
to say that I love the way plants curl
towards light. I love you because
you promised to never miss a rain.
I want to learn to hang an even shelf
in a cluttered home. I want to learn
how to be still in the night. I want to
learn to be more soft flesh than lockjaw.
Last night I told you that by treating us
as something separate from nature,
the only suitable ethic is one in which
we do not exist—fuck that.
I’m working on my resolution. I call it
sorry for everything. I’ll make it up to you.
Lucas Peel is an expletive living in Honolulu, Hawai’i. He is sorry 4 everything.