Author Joseph Heywood
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The Waiting Season
[ December 23, 1996]

Eve of Eve, we are drenched,
fog-thundering amidst the bleak
landscape of our souls,
mouth-breathers afoot,
frenzied on the blood-feed,
no accident all this red at Christmas,
Saturnalia sleeps in our neurons
hidden in fibrous cortex
spurting biochemical droplets,
messengers of winter solstice,
like the hunt,                             
flashing active after eons,
undeniable,
we have torrid loins
hungering mindlessly, Jerusalem
farther than Never-Never-Land,
no pixie dust save what flows
from glowing genitalia.
We pretend civilization poorly,
take fates as it comes,
like fronts, blown willy-nilly,
grope for meaning in random
atomic particles, soldier on
as if outcomes are decided
by prayers and votives,
sin tax lacking syntax,
I hold my breath
until spring comes
and trout rise
red, that again.


 
 
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