Year's End
Beth Roberts
Avoiding relation I go for the throat.
In the sifting traffic hourglass heart

things appear thinned, limbs in the dance
separate in the new circumstance.

Where the edge of a hand slips to the field
in a synapse so fine, yet all the world

wants a long attenuating history in its stead.
Snowflakes pivot through the gap. In my head

I repeat till it beats, I love all my loves, I love
all my love,