Turn of a Year

    This is regret： or a ferret. Snuffling，

    stunted， a snout full of snow.

    As the end of day shuffles down

    the repentant scurry and swarm-

    an unstable contrition is born.

    Bend down. Look into the lair.

    Where newborn pieties spark and strike

    I will make my peace as a low bulb

    burnt into a dent of snow. A cloth to keep me

    from seeping. Light crumpled over a hole.

    Why does the maker keep me awake？

    He must want my oddments， their glow.