Classic Poem

Every year has a face,
maps, old letters
you pour over.

Driving home I veer away
from the flickering lights
of the cyclists floating beside me
like spectral fish
in deep water.

I got it wrong that night.
I thought it was the heavens,
the heaviness of Saturn on the table
before me.

It was just an old dime,
a memory spinning
away from its mind.