December 29 fits like a
capped tooth over angry
decay and flotsam-jetsam rot.
And all is not at all what it does seem.
This is, in fact, the dream.
Love like a harlot visiting Jesus
pleading for cleansing mercy.
Music of the angels draining down
into the very cavity of this sore earth.
The mirth is nil. The children ill.
The herald angels sing
of spring and I listen faintly
from my bed of thorns.
In many morns and nights
the angels fly their saintly lights
to keep us from colliding.
Shepherds are abiding.