Give me the names for things, just give me their real names, Not what we call them, but what They call themselves when no one’s listening - At midnight, the moon-plated hemlocks like unstruck bells, God wandering aimlessly elsewhere. Their names, their secret names.
December. Everything’s black and brown. Or half-black and half-brown. What’s still alive puts its arms around me, amen from the evergreens That want my heart on their ribbed sleeves. Why can’t I listen to them? Why can’t I offer my heart up To what’s in plain sight and short of breath?
Restitution of the divine in a secular circumstance - Page 10, The Appalachian Book of the Dead, the dog-eared one, Pre-solstice winter light laser-beaked, sun over Capricorn, Dead-leaf-and-ice-mix grunged on the sidewalk and driveway. Short days. Short days. Dark soon the light overtakes. Stump of a hand.