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Sunday, April 27, 2014



There is a keening
On the wind, a kind of clear
Blue wanting that knows how
To use a can opener on the
Air, so that it can tear silver
Lines into the heart.  Oh, there
Will be no blood, for blood is
A veil and time, a great bird
High over the roofs of this town.

We thread our way past the crowds
To discover a land drenched with moon,
Its collection of owls silently winging
Out, over the edge of the lake.  There
is an idiot’s song, a lament caught
On the floor of the night.  How big
It all seems, the words, the voices
From the sink of the city.  It is
As if we were not to find a way
Here, as if God himself were out
For the day inventing Christmas
All over again, so that it might have
A different sound, perhaps that of many
Children, rather than the small golden 
Voice two thousand years old.

When we arrive home, well
Fed and slightly tired, the block
Is strung with colored lights and
Singing can be heard from windows,
Laughter and a crisp of first frost
In the air.  It must have been
Like this over and over again,
So far we have come knowing such

Things, so far we have left them behind.

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