It is January four.
Yesterday I lost my glasses somewhere on a trail, doubled back, tripled back, quadrupled back to no avail.
I did all of my errands twice to four times because I got it so wrong first blush.
Yesterday I cried like I told myself I wasn't going to anymore, as though numbers changing at the end of a calendar year could somehow click me away from how I see it. Guess it doesn't work like that, maybe never has, though I don't regret leaving room for different magic.
This morning Billy Collins told me I was the crystal goblet and the wine. He assured me I wasn't the boots in the corner, suggested there was a possibility I was the pigeon on the general's head.
How did he know?