I had my eye on a little place,
had stayed there many times
(prettiest place you ever saw!),
had come upon it by accident
after the hammer strike to the thumb,
marveling you could stand there and
feel no pain. Till you did – due
dilligence confirming what we all already knew.
But now with this new government
the fence on the fun has been flattened,
and the good times spill forth unhindered.
So I’ve bought in. And just in time, too.
For prices have spiked, and I’ll be damned if every hick
isn’t rushing in to punch his golden ticket!
One by one I removed what we’d so carefully placed,
the ornaments collected over twenty-five years,
each of which reminded me of some where and
some one – and, too, of the lesser Christmas had now
by those in trouble (in my family, I kept it to that.)
By chance or design (otherwise known as an
algorithm of Spotify), my playlist flowed into
one of old love songs, this tributary in turn feeding
the river that flowed once past our house, there where
Mom and Dad had done their best just
to hang on. “Don’t give,” David Soul sang,
“up on me, baby.”
I fell in love there
for the first (and second and third)
time. Where does it go?
Well, I guess just
back in the box.
First the heaviest ones.
Then a layer of paper.
Then the lighter and more fragile
the skiers and seaplane,
the painted glass balls –
in alternate layers to the top of the box.
“It’s sad… ” sang England Dan
and John Ford Coley,”
as I wound up the lights
and put away the peak.
“I guess that’s all
This undocumented god
seeks asylum in my heart.
I fuss up some papers,
run out the back
and leave the heart to him.
It should all of it fit.
Even all the worst
you’d never have do with it.
Where the wind doubles back
and the same rain falls twice
The wind against
was hard till it bent our
road the other way
So what I did was swap out death for life.
I poked through and (for life was not all)
down in around and out again,
stitching a garment for every weather.
I rifled through the drawers of death.
I took back all my letters.
Death she never wrote me back.
She let me hang here ever.
The leaves of all I’ve read
stir as I walk, reproach
me with their dryness, beg
to be tramped
under into something good.
A little man fried in oil
limbs in motion
stilled by the heat