and what do you do with a new year
or an infant you cannot see
evergreen down all we've found is snow and ice
and we are too tired for hoping and nearly too weary
for breathing
and believing is just a headache
and in the scattered manger this may be the message of
that season
past any cheer you could force
in the snowborn worst
in the discarded wrapping paper waiting
like a shroud
desperation as loud as the misery
of doorstop fruitcake
i am born and
i am here