Grace and Peace to you.
Twelve days is more than enough,
don’t you think?
We’re clearly done with it now.
We glitter it up, the startling birth,
costuming the unsettling nearness,
the marriage of dark and light,
the whelming, the danger.
We do our best to confine
the infinite ardor to the singular night,
the little manger.
As if the journey to Bethlehem,
or the cross, is longer than afterward.
As if love or an open grave
would only last a moment.
Twelve days seems long now,
even for the undoing of our kingdoms.
Now we can move on, can’t we?—
pretending to be sad as we return
to our accustomed darkness,
packing the stars away in boxes
somewhere in the basement of us
where still, all year,
But here on the bus
don’t I hear angels?
On this drab morning
at the office
isn’t that you
curling around me like fog,
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