Carol

Oaks or chestnuts, what here              draws brass linen, wakes me, overcast,              with the polished sprigs of my grandmother's              lamp, holding the plumed shade once

holding fire by her opened Bible, parsed              for the night's reading. Across dark and              plywood, an aqueduct's dry run, listen              my voice, around her house, croton leaves

from the oven's heat, levitating.              Saturdays doubles her to a bee. I outstare              the sea and summon the carols of Christmas;              her fake pine tree, its foil star

perforates the town's gossiping lights.              I again turn the pages, she sleeps              in the watered-down night.

Where do they go? Where do they go?