'Jack Pines' droop with
humps of snow now dropping patchy
shadows upon the avenue: four
o’clock and the bluing edges of the
day are ragged with emergent stars
an insufficient sun, a threadbare sun
low and vanishing behind the breezy
coolish clack of naked apple treesÍ we take a
coffee in the corner of the church
basement. slush from our sodden shoes
puddling beneath the table, your
woolen tie is knotted like a stone below
your chin: the night is arriving like a
speciesl. and I feel the aggregation of half
a hundred Christmases upon my back.
may I say it. an evolution fiom embryo
In paracleteÍ the altar is red with the
bloodl of Poinsettias and crisp with lightÍ you
ask me if I remember when and yes I doÍ
we will sing and pray and button
tight our coats while walking
home in the steamy winter darkÍ we
are vulgar people. our mum: am
of broken teeth and bread.