For those days when the lights switch on and off
by themselves and I hear voice messages
from longstanding enemies.
For the good old days when I rely
on verses I already wrote
to keep from slashing my wrists.
For the fear of failing
that haunts me every December.
Will this be the year my planet refuses
to forgive me with a blush of green
long enough to soothe my heartaches?
For the assumptions of next winter’s chill
and the quiet days in between.
Your face among the poinsettias
after every prayer and rainfall.
The only image I long for.