new year's poem

Whatever happens now -
I am falling forward, leaning out from the edge
of now, yet born back
by the push of the unknown, the force
of hurtling forth.
I am the train's blind engine, its sheet metal
skin, the glint at the edge where
it slices the air, its scream
into the dark.
I'm the crown of the newborn,
the blood-smeared brow behind
the tiny hand.
Good life and young, and yet
so much forgotten, my years forget me,
who I was, who I will become.

This is the way the world ends, not
with a bang...

that white light is the linen pillowcase,
clean as a hotel mirror; 
and I do recall, after all, a few things:
the smell of your shirt collar,
his small hand in mine,
a room full of candles.
that white light is the snow,
a blizzard, burying the line.