Year of Dead Wrens. Year of Give it Back. L Yearzley, it’s been raining for three straight days, and the drops have stopped guessing. Yearzley of the Wish. Of the Church. The 1 Bus is late again, and I’m standing, again, in the rain. Year umbrellas march like shields to the chivalrous war. If we’d married, Ila would’ve bought us matching shoes. Year of Nikes, Reeboks, the ban on donations. And twenty miles from here, a Year stuffed into Ipswich suburbia. Corn sprouting up like bones we might’ve fought for. Year we didn’t fight for. The other crushes bored us. Year You are Me. We talk and talk to Me. The hospital across the street from the bus stop, its glass doors jostling apart. But nobody’s there. Year of You a Year Ago, dozing on your side, your mouth trying to speak about a shadow, then not. The Year’s Ghost was right: we should’ve allowed ourselves to kiss in front of your parents or at least close friends like Daniel and Bianca (or even their Baby Serena?). Two geese in the sky, slow as twilight. Slow as the 1. Year of this streetlight above me, blue like a digital ox. Year of the Ox. Years of Oxen. I shook water on all your old plants to the sound of NBC bombs. Years of Bombs. Yearzley of You-You-You but Is There Another You? Year of Ezekiel’s eyes. We had Ezekiel’s eyes. Rain trampolines off the puddles in the street. The 1 appears in the fog. I swipe my card, $1.70, and step through the doors. On the floor, some shadows lean closer and kiss. They’re itching each other with knives.