Poem 3: The World at Christmas
too, has more space than things.
Out in misted curls goes weight, shade
memories the tumbled tide of death like
isolated rubble. In
warmth, breadth
expanse of food like round embers
in bellies.
Holding you closely
all space collapses. Breath
makes bonds a blanket enclosing
the universe weeklong
of things, all wonderful,
all imprints of our love.