Christmas Past
At the end of the season
bagging trash
worn out from holiness
Lights burning black holes
in bright windows.
Longer nights circle narrowing days,
sense of unseen toothless dogs.
The thin smoke of merriment rising
out of colorless dawns.
The children are sulky
their wishes all came true,
someday close at hand
they will understand.
Still it’s been
(if the amount of trash
counts for anything),
the very best one yet.
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