Twelfth Day

The tree's only there
for as long as I am
in December.

Didn't fancy a trip
to Walgreens to replace
the guttered strings,
I'd only bring home some
of those strip lights,
as atoms beneath which
cashiers strain for
bonhomie.

We went tiki instead,
and I left the lights on,
all day of the twelfth day,
primary colours as one,
beamed through
cut crystal celebration,
broken out as museum security,
through which we crawl,
over cake crumbs.

The rest of the year's light,
unreliable,
the day is either
too gray, too bleached,
too dusty, light that just hangs,
sticks to your ribs,
how did we fare before we could
shine through pines
artificially?

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