296 and 297; and 324: The Seven Days of December: ii

You must buy one specific thing each time

you visit any thrift or bargain store:

to pass it over would be such a crime

that I could not forgive you—it’s that sore.

You might think that it’s not of great import,

that you don’t even like that kind of thing;

but do not pass it by—do not report

that you can do such something with such sting.

You will be finding it if you look close,

do not say that it simply wasn’t there.

It is, of all things precious there, the most;

and, of all secondhanded things, most rare:

you must buy one old orchestra CD

(so that you might, in turn, give it to me!)

~~~

Is that a loft? In chapels, where they keep

the lights that light upon the ceiling soft?

Is that where angels listen, chat, and sleep

when on a Sunday morn? Is that their loft?

A child will wonder at such silly things

when bored on Sundays sitting in a pew.

While all the congregation sits and sings,

a boy will wonder what the angels do,

and look to lofts where hidden lights are kept,

ignoring sacraments beneath his nose,

and wonders if the angels, too, have slept

through boring talks and plodding, pious prose.

And then the organ sings, and he wakes up,

but who hath nourished from the better cup?

~~~

Remember when you couldn’t feel your nose?

Perhaps it was more recently for you.

You’ll know from many past December’s snows

how it can feel to have no nose on you.

It’s like that now at night if you are bent

to linger out after the sun has set.

And even light, sometimes, cannot prevent

the numbnesses your nose’s nerves abet.

But if there’s blood flow elsewhere than your nose,

as in your arms and legs by work or play,

your fondness for the cold sensation grows

as you enjoy the pleasures of the day.

And night has its own musings to distract

from noses’ nerves that will not stay intact.