The Happy New Years

  by Meg Sowid

It is so to speak
not over, not even
started. This page
where the thumb
rests for a moment
is already done
and mulled over.
Two giant priests
or pagans, two 
rock hard idols
talk to no one,
not even
to each other.
Sun rises, sun sets.
Building down,
blood everywhere
more of that
special lust for life
found in the imprints.
Baby is held above
the crowd
in green coffin,
the sounds above
are whirring ghosts,
the incoming tracers
and revved up Jessies.