2012 was an embroidered hem, 2012 was a frayed cuff, 2012 was a wide sea serged with a single thread. Time running like a chain stitch, a sovereign without an heir. Far shores glittered with snow. Last January’s footprints, salt-sodden and shapeless, point toward a horizon on a collision course with itself. There’s a thread in my hand, a crewelwork rosette on my tongue. Musa, mihi causas memora. We are always in medias res. The year is dead; long live the Year.