The clock strikes:
these are the steps of our departure.
- Charles Reznikoff
Christmas
present as a
wooden coffin.
OKAY.
This is the
time of year--
no--
portraits of
fallen relatives;
cookies molded
to flattened plates;
light eggnog;
L. L. Bean
gift certificates;
white and unholy--
no--
melted snow
still soft and white,
fluffy as it turns mush;
green needles
of pines;
white and gray
birch skins;
brown decay,
leaves hanging
crispy and sudden;
same shadows
I care not for
though always
should have,
lingering down
those treeways,
resonant,
glibbering
geography--
his poems,
1918 - 1975,
sit between my
grandmother
and I, his
face glancing
at the blue
couch cushions.
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