Jason McCall


Does it feel like the promise
of something new? Yesterday stale in your mouth,

morning breath of car bombs and platitudes.
But the world is still

dying: another inch of snow and another inch
of waistline. And you thought you could leave

this behind because you tore a calendar
off your wall, because you were brave enough

to look at a phone number
and press delete. Step outside. Step on

the scales. Do butterflies own this world?
Is that a new face you see in the microwave door?

This is the season of the two-faced god.
Don’t believe his promises. Don’t

let him palm your dreams
like a trick coin.

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