Christmas comes early this year, before
Thanksgiving. Birds won’t know which way to face.
When ought we begin to move? In case
of fraud, endure what sense we came back for.
Each seventh thunder coughs its warning. Four
hours later, one home per, believed, in place
of walls we sketch through versions. Why go chase
persuasions scarce imagined heretofore?
As small a piece as color is, let’s wait
to fix where we forgot to fill things in.
See, somewhere out there’s classic sin
another way of getting done. Too late,
too late? “I told you so,” recites the weight
behind it all. When do we let me win?