Christmas Aubade

In the open air hesitation

held where the crisp breath was;

we knew nothing & parted. "But the pebbles,

but that sound, beating
on the water?" ...

"That's the pile-driver." The elevated

horizon coughed, the Rookery a haze cloistered

my fist letting her fingers out the three
of us knotted like a fist huddled in the stairs

or at your door at the street's token finish
belting John Ball in the basement

or this screaming white cat winking
 in our new present evening. Still full

of knots the tempting musk of hot knives

 raising up to clink our glasses in departure.