December 25, 2011 § Leave a comment

Getting into your
head, into the house all lit
like bombs. The family bomb.

Repetition of the spectrum,
Zap. Zap. The electric
chord is draped and stiff
around the family neck,
the tree erect.

You think, ah! The colors
hitting your retina,
Ting. Ting, then into
your nose, sending you
into a bonfire and then into
the year before, and before
When this here was not
anything but a prophecy.

The little colors drop,
hitting the floor. No one hears it, or
a friend lying in a hospital room
saying “yes” with two blinks of an eye.

The family huddles: the pieces stray less
during the explosion.



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