Christmas, 2002 / No. 9

I can’t see the widow in the garden

her bright scarf grinning in the sun

I don’t recall the swarm of fish—

the garish mouths, the little gasps of mud

I’ve forgotten the dice box of thumbs

their flight, their fret and clatter down the hall

I’ve stopped thinking of the sea of thought

the weak peaks, flotsam in the swells

I can’t remember that particular

grey light (you know the one)

that lingers on the pavement and

keeps the day from warming

Kevin Connolly is a poet, freelance editor, and Taddle Creek’s copy editor. His next collection, Xiphoid Process, is forthcoming. Last updated winter, 2016–2017.