There enters January from the left,
A grinning rush of sudden death. I say,
Says January, You know that’s not true.
I kill the pine-bore beetles, and I spread
The grass with green—potentially. I turn
Away. I have no time for this. I’ve made
Friends with the spring. It promised me a shoot,
A pistil, and the grounds to make them work.
January wears cold around its lungs,
A heart of hoar, the frost that doesn’t care
Who freezes whom. It has its ice on you,
Its arabesques of cars out of control,
Its night where streetlights groan about the dark.
Somewhere the exiled cupids fletch their arrows.
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