past past present (20161222)

these ghosts hover
like the shimmer
of christmas booze
over a dickensian pudding

[so many dead
–the poet said]

no one waited until spring
no thaw
and frost flowers
blossomed from gravesite earth

poinsettia and holly berry
heart color bright for the season
pleasing to view
poison to taste
divided by a pair of aces and nines
yet in my dreams
always together

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