The Unmarked Year

I turned the page to the month of the frost

and counted the mornings I’ve already lost.

The squares are all empty, a grid of white space,

with no one to meet and no particular place.

The holidays are printed in a tiny red font,

reminding me of everything I don't really want.

And there in the crease, where the staples are bent,

is a fly that has finished the life that it spent.

It’s dried to a husk between Wednesday and Thursday,

stuck in the paper in a permanent way.