Zion, New Year, 2017

Leaned out of the window into a brisk wind at midnight
And looked up at the old hunter of alternative worlds,
Cold fires over the garden gate: local time.
Welcomed the swap in numbers, meaningless though it was,
Because it was meaningless and made of nothing
But meaning. Pure signifying, no monkeying around
This calendar now. This was not the transformation
I had expected to undergo, except as something other
Than me. But here we were, body, thoughts, microbes,
And fresh numbers. One way or another my number
Is bound to come up, the one that's a winner, the one
That's a metaphor for a conclusion more likely. I gathered
My strength for the invisible, arbitrary leap across
The chasm at midnight. Reader, I leapt it. But not
In a single bound. Many, many bounds involving me.
The hunter beyond the bounds of empires winked.
The old man in the convenience store across the state line,
Back in the old dispensation, said, "You remember, it's not much,
But it's better'n a kick in the head." Never will see then again.
Back to bed, tiny bug. Morning sweeping toward you. Sleep.