^{—after Freda Epum}

the day could do without
me. The ice outside glitters around
my car’s tires like a pageant
dress. Only digital utterances between
myself and the world for at least
a week. The last time he visited, my friend
noted the lack of natural light
in my downstairs apartment, 
the posthumous-grey bleeding into
the mood. Aught of light
in the bedroom due to the blackout
curtains. But sometimes,
the day heckles, with its high-
bitch sun and melting snow. Some
days, I lay in the morgue
of darkness, hyper-alone,
and the sunlight, so audacious, paints
the color back onto my cheeks. 

^{When it’s Christmas we’re all of us magi.   
—Joseph Brodsky}

A gaunt star leans out from the crown,  
and along the skirt, a practiced randomness  
of gifts grows like a moraine. 

It bulges to excess  
as we stack the rest. Our boy’s in bed.  
Tapers stretch their resinous 

legs on the tablecloth in deepening red.  
And when he wakes, as he must,  
to miracle, I’ll think of Herod 

while he scours the many with a lust  
for more. How some are taken.  
How even he is just a guest.