Between the Old Year and the New there lay,
uncalendared, a time of amnesty:
one hundred one score hours; nor any day
asking account of guilt or secrecy.
These, lacking month and ordinal, became
their own white dominoes against sin or shame.

When change of season spooled the minutes back,
an hour became a ghost, then lived again.
Where was its place upon the almanac?
What gift was real in it, or what stain?
Better: the clock moved forwards, and a space
was opened lacking all of ill or grace.

A medicine against whatever ails!
Then let reluctance or disgust be torn
out of your calendar: the love avails,
the uncorruption dies or is not born:
if harm were meant, harm could not clutch or live
in the intercalation you might give.