Christmas, flew home packaged like a gift. Beneath my jeans a childlike padding. Came to adore the wee god, his dolorous mother. All while bleeding like a can of cherries. Clots sluicing down my thighs. The storefront windows glaucous, spotted with ashen, ineffectual stars. From heaven dropped unrelenting sleet. The dawns all too bright and immaculate. Lit by snowlight, ached prostrate before a mirror, bare and quivering in its stare. The runnels running downward, red ribbons. Porcelain like a bank of snow. Each night a night silent and wholly unbearable. Stains blooming on sheets like poinsettias. Percocets tumbling like flurries on the tongue. Fall on your knees. Collapsed sudden in a vestibule. O hear the angel voices. Rose fevered, soaked with slush. Flew home for Christmas, plane niveous as a dove. The window’s bleed hole haloed, a nimbus of tinselly frost. Leaned feebly against the pane. The cities rutilant, scarred by streets. The lakes spattered black and viscous. The sky blushing as if shamed.