by Dah Helmer

Dawn’s shadowy cast
church bells ring like empty skulls
winter trees
cheerless and glum

Into the wind a crow
trails the wet air
lands on a wire
A cold hand in a pocket

There is no movement
but my shiver
Earth is pure in its grief

I stare into December’s
pale body
and feel as it feels

More wind
the crow wobbles

I pull my collar up
tuck into my heat
walk in the street
It is early
the light is blind

At a Mexican house
a manger display
Jesus is plastic
with white skin

and in this emotionally torrid world
my only concern is
Will the café be open?

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