New Year In the Gridding Cogs

I cannot think of the dead anymore nor travel far into the starry night. I recall everything in off-white detail; days are caught in grinding cogs. This past year, and this New Year are already ground-up as fine as any raw, marrow-minced hope, a dish that will be served tomorrow, but only as a takeaway as we drive through - mouths tight shut. Nevertheless we will eat, we will peer over the rim of our nightmares, but not travel long into twilight in case the dawn finds us not daring to breathe.