Time is no old token—

no mere copper

flattened at a poorly
lit rest stop in a town

in the middle of mid-
America— No plush

toy lifted by pincers
from a glassed-in

bin for the price
of a wish for as long

as you have three
quarters to push

into the slot. Go
outside and breathe

the cold air, check
how the dark still

threshes the brightest
stars before you buckle

in for the ride again,
past house after house:

some identical as slats
in a picket fence, some

marked with just the faintest
thumbprint of curry escaping

from a kitchen window, one
whose gutter has been replaced

by cups of linked metal
in a rain chain.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Belated Christmas letter.

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