Withering Fire

There's a withering fire to the touch, When bequeathing our alms at midnight- The stain-glass bursting with secrets, The statues holding back the daylight. Most words to the masses forgotten, Eyes meet none for lean centuries, Hands in coat pockets, so the coldness Won't hasten the season's miseries. A mistle-toe sprig's on the lamp post, There's gay cards strewn over the table: The holiday for good will's arriving- But we lie far apart, as we're able. Somewhere are sweet voices singing, While lovers warm palms tightly pressed- But the old bed down early on Christmas Because they’d rather just have their rest.