This side of my eyelids is a dark that lacks

density, matt patches of light tempering

the spread of shadow, wrinkles of glass-shatter
frozen just short of a drop, a millimetre

of airy perspective with a hint of

comic-book stars that follow a knock-out punch
or the thirty-six candles of the French

translation from the graphic, a black and white

negative of the New Year pyrotechnics,
son et lumière, fridge-hum and a faint spill

of streetlight. Bonne Année indeed, bonnier

than the last one or the one before, if I lived
my life backwards or were legally blind

to all the evidence. I wait for sleep to shut

the world off like a falconer’s hood.