SATURNALIA

That the ghosts who haunt our lives
shan't buckle under the sun     of this earth

in the snow in the high stations above
the boulevard      waking to quicksand

the joiner of this life     a grifter of balsa
roods       picker of locks
      in woolen mitts the chill
unlocks the gusts of his breath

barefoot winter light

reflects the pasty skies
in fisheyed vestments       where the Black
Sun hovers above this world

of fact we love         a ship of oars
& no crew               they crash

into our cabals        the white anchors
        of the falling snow