January by Kerfe Roig

With my ruler, I put time on a line. I make lines into boxes, containers to hold the evidence of
my existence, to keep the unfamiliar far away.

But I can’t enclose the holes, the openings. My frames can’t stop the vortex that pulls
everything into the circle, the border blurring then and now.

the year a mirror–
what is behind reflects in–
and before looks back