At the end of time, after the marching bands
of oxen and dragons, of roosters and adders,
and the octave of others: the year of the minnow.
How do I know? I watch children drawing
schools of fish.
A minnow is eternity’s sigil—
the prone eight—except its tail is docked.
In the year of the minnow, some, selfish,
will come to the river with nets and jugs,
as if they could seize time from the current,
as if time were a currency, and minnows
pennies, that one could hoard in a changeless jar.
But the wise will not even cup their hands
as they enter the water, trusting the skittish fish
to trace Möbius strips around their ankles,
to unshackle them from the dozens of years