Another Year Poem by Bengt O Björklund

Thus I called the pending year
by all fear night concludes with cries
and abandoned kites that fly with stars
in a wondrous wake.

This is nothing less than a promised glimpse,
a voyage of consequence that winds its way
from here to all potential said so
and back again.

Drab stories of delusion fall short at dusk.
Frenzied flakes of sub zero content
that slide down dark moon matter
to meet what does not count fails.