A new beginning,
or the restating
of an old one.
Oh, how fun:
another era, in which to run
to the next.
These years
are wine glasses
thinly punctured.
Each one holds
enough promise,
barely,
til the juncture
into the sequel.
Stagnant.
Instances
equal to prior
everything.
And anything
would do now,
provided,
it freshened.
Somehow,
I surmise,
however,
that like poems
written in
quasi-prose,
its brilliance
is undermined
by the fact
that it's all been done
before.