Another sunset subtracted:
lessons of the year make the gifts
that were to be given,
ones greatly reduce from the colossal.
Why does one wish for the material,
when all is soul and brains?
“I am here!” I say.
But it’s just an echo.
A campaign slogan for the hearing impartial.
What I want is a soul
that resurrects the day just by whispering
a few stanzas from grocery stand periodicals
extending the words into the infinite
for hours upon hours, until the seconds break
the distance between us.
Then we both make pancakes
and rejoice with mismatched slippers on,
a sublimation of ourselves among the juniper and sky.