Dear god, the nape of it.
He loves a pale Leo
in November. He loves a pale Leo
His oxen senses,
his driving team,
pull him
into the dream of her
but today,
like yesterday,
there will be no lion,
no afternoon nap.
True, her axle neck
barely holds
her head and heart
together.
And listen
to the sound
of her noel voice.
True, her boy shape
is no pear.
In her hand,
there rests
no frying pan.
Nearly all month,
he has been loping
across the room --
ape-living;
here, empty hands
and empty arms
forever hang loose.
Secretly, he hopes
for a strange,
warm winter.
Home is pretty
this time of year.
He loves a pale Leo
in November.
Dear god, the awake of it.
C.A. MacConnell
