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(Thanksgiving Eve 2001: after 9-11)

Stars glint like change

in a purse snapped open;

the moon collars with ice. Time

floats in hushed expectation,

amazed again at its plunge

to winter night.

Now the

ingathering begins: a faint

drone of genes like damselflies

builds to a pulse, the throb

and aileron squeal of landings

drowned by silverware.

Pour out

the wine: at this long table

crowded with more than cousins

let us give thanks

for what we do not have ---

split roofs, burned towns,

a scrum of fleeing households

on the road; the slick

wet-lipped pornography

of vengeance ---

accept instead

this warmth, this lavish

grace; this gleaming

incandescent silence.

Version first published in [Capitol] Hill Rag, Nov. 2018; reprinted in Falcons (2020)

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