Thanksgiving

The days are strung like

telephone poles on a dark road;

and the face before you has leapt

out of the gloom,

startled you,

before sliding past unrecognized.

Shadows moving in the glow from the grate

love transactions;

a hand lain on a bare shoulder

with all the weight of a flaming sword, that you

turn unseen from turkey and sweet potatoes,

a roach crouching silent under the cranberry dish,

and slip into the forest behind the house

to spend half an hour in twilight knocking the

tufts off of dandelions.

You will sell everything.