Sunday. It's always Sunday.
Rifts and seams of dark birds
Right-flank and wheel across a darker December sky
Southwest and so wide.
Winter solstice again,
burnt end of a narrow road.
The lawn chairs gutter and glare in their white solitude.
How short the days are.
How imperceptibly we become ourself--
like solstice-diminishing light
Devolving to one appointed spot,
We substitute and redress
In predetermined degrees we've neither a heart nor hand in.
How slowly the streetlights come on.
How shrill the birds are.
Take off your traveling clothes and
lay down your luggage,
Pilgrim, shed your nakedness.
Only the fire is absorbed by the Holy of Holies.
Let it shine.
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