Tape still spins out of the year,
Archie, although what I’ve done
With it is both much
Less and more continuous
Than your single scroll.
Days need poetry
Free, formal, or gimmicky
For me to feel I’ve fixed them
In my glaring stare.
More than twenty-five hundred
Suns I’ve documented sins,
Now another one.
It’s cold in Salt Lake City,
Here near the turn of the year.
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