From a Christmas wake.

Here it comes again, the wait through Christmas in this year's fill of sustenance offered me. What will come the same day a year later besides palms and tears, except slow draws on still life. Let in soft wakes, not the ones you have followed, but the ones I had avoided for fist, for nights. I can not love them, I am sorry. If I can not go then I will look and if I can not look then I will listen and if I can not listen then I will feel and if I can not feel then we will be together.