Press its thorny stems between the pages of a book you plan to give away.
Let it simmer on the stove until the smoke is sweet and the pan is gone.
Crate it up and mail it to the moon.
Wrap your arms around it as you would a grieving child.
Tell it shush when it wants to be a dream.
Imagine the faint glistening as the planetarium’s lights go dim.
Go out into the actual night and uncup your hands a final time.
Listen to the saints
if saints there be
whisking us all toward uncertain sleep
if not soon then soon
the sleep of birds of flowers
of years like this one
and years aching coming daring to be born
Unwinding the future of our past
reaching toward us as we reach
let this year rise like music
let it become us
let it disappear like my own hand
holding the match
unlighting the flame