A Meditation On Her Name At Christmas

Under its
Tissue paper veil of
Purple rapture,
A tower of magic circles and
Pungence-stained glass. I want to
Scramble up
This sheer expanse of footholdless
Curve, hand over
Hand on the slippery
Climb like a sun rubbed raw
By the morning as she remembers
The sky; to drop
Down the chimney of your shrine and
Land, empty-handed,
Sooty and golden like a dandelion
in your lap, and let you blow
Away
My petals, one by
One if you like,
Out of time, scattering the cloudy,
Stinging-nettle scent of tinsel
And cinnamon and gingersnaps. There, I
Want to
Get drunk
On the sticky, golden shimmer
Of your soul, to feel it,
Lazy and elated on
My breath, to inhale that
Ecstasy of rhyme and whisper and
Open windows on a winter
Sunrise, to write
Your name into my tongue’s hungry
Heritage of songs and
Fairy-tales and make it
A new dialect; to
Pen you a murmur of haikus
In which you are my sunset…

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