This year I’ll be a hair shirt in reverse,
teeth on fruit and a tongue in the secret places,
a psalm in the face of my enemies,
the nail that works loose from every theory,
two steps toward whatever moves,
a cool basement for my goat to play in,
and this year I’ll take ten fingers
and write slowly of the prisons,
no sadness will be spared,
no cell forgotten,
and every day I’ll remember
the length of each convict’s body.
I’ll remember the new year is everywhere,
even behind those bars,
and join my friends in the tunnels
where in spite of everything
Terry danced a jig once and I watched
and I think I’ll bathe in the sea
and let no more than a little salt water
separate Terry and me.