Tuesday, December 9, 2014


So you're finally trekking back
home—cold December 
gym member;

and outside 
there's these—tall pretty spruce
trees—or maybe 

faux fir 
branches wound
around tight with jam-

and-silver gilded 
garlands—to say nothing

of nearby 
dry, bright holly 
berries with baked-
on pine cones, nestled 
neat and 
sticky in well- 
appointed poinsettia plants

and wreathes—silly
cheery cherry redwood ones,
ribboned, champagne-
with dumb apples
and those grapes
that are fake—and Jesus!

what the heck 
is this?

doesn't it just seem?—
the more festive 
a thing,

the less likely
it is—
you can eat it.