The gristle in this meat is killing us

with kindness, its fatness quaint

in 2008 as the days

swindle into unexpected darkness,

sharpness of knives kept in a safe.

Kindness has limits we have to obey.

The clock holds out its hands to us —

time appears to bend our way.

We watch it fly out a closed window

to the day before yesterday.

Given the chance to live again, do.

Remember that October the trees turned

redder than your ass in the shower?

I wouldn’t want to give up either.