Green Linden Press

Slow Christmas                                                                                                —Joshua Marie Wilkinson

Said the weather, long in the making,
a wind to formulate another breaker
of trucks and mad crimson.

I could see the cop lights in the snow.
I ran aground with you.

Each thin membrane of this life is
a fealty, a decompensation, or an ogre
of a banishment.

Let us forgive ourselves something.
As to what, wait on the wind, long yet
in its orange formation.

(This poem is available in our store  
as a broadside signed by the author.)