The mast-tall firs
Quail in the rain,
Needles droop, the skeleton shivers
As if a god of the Northlands,
Down and drunk after a thousand-year slide,
Staggered into a State Street mission
For Christmas supper, and they
Deloused him first.
Wotan shakes under the icy needles
His good eye throbs in drunk rage headache
His bones bloom like the great firs of Vinland
While the sisters whisper about the size of that old one there
And mix bug-dust through his clothes.
He wishes then he were a tree in the rain
And the trees, they still wish they were gods.
7 November 2008