(As the Dead Go)
How blank I have to be to
force grief grace gravy
(the last one is fiction)
on Thanksgiving.
Life comes from the
subplot arose in the
southern hemisphere
that grew to a big ol’ goal.
What gets me’s not the new
Christmas Tree in Union Square
nor the skating rink, not even
a new credit card. But the
out for a bit of air push through it all,
step in front of the other. Toward that goal.
