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whose gutter has been replaced
by cups of linked metal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.