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A Christmas Day Poem 2020

a bruised reed  
honking like a goose 
at the thin beginning of a saxophone; 
the wick of a star still smouldering 
above a town famous 
for its paranormal astronomy; 
a midwife cow; 
a shrine of straw, 
and all of us linked in together 
locked down in houses far apart 
asking ourselves 
“what child is this 
inside my chest 
who still fears the night 
and loneliness?” 

it’s forever happening— 
our growing up  
our growing into  
a higher order understanding 
of the fragile smouldering in the sky  
that guides us to the light we share. 

We’re here apart. 
It’s Christmas 2020. 
It’s hard but not unhappy. 
Things never turn out, 
thank God, 
the way our pouting little imaginations 
insist they should.