Christmas poem
This house I have stands deep,
Dimensionless in me.
Here I can sing and weep.
Here God can come to be.
Flimsy as an old stable,
It’s a porous place to dwell.
I’ve proved hopelessly unable
To seal it off from hell.
The Holy Innocents
Are growing every day
In number. Someone repents
And, turning, turns away.
This house I have stands deep,
Dimensionless in me.
Keep Christmas here, Child. Keep
Your weakness bright to see.
