Eleven pm, 25th December
A rich, warm fug of an evening,
food still spread.
The slow day weights us,
basted in luxury, we have everything.
I pull at the heavy curtains
slide open the doors
and I stop talking and eating and
step into sudden aloneness.
The night ripples over my arms
like cold water, lifting my hair
and I sink back, sink back, sink back
plunge softly into puritan stars
sky pours into my lungs
clouds smooth out my face.