(As the Dead Go)

How blank I have to be to
force grief grace gravy
(the last one is fiction)
on Thanksgiving.

Life comes from the
subplot arose in the
southern hemisphere
that grew to a big ol’ goal.

What gets me’s not the new
Christmas Tree in Union Square
nor the skating rink, not even
a new credit card. But the

out for a bit of air push through it all,
step in front of the other. Toward that goal.

dancing toward that goal

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