I have a huge pack of them but they’re all stubborn.
Like a Jack London story.
The wolf? Seasonal affect.
The danger’s a cold menorah.
Prometheus! I call thee!
I have latkes!


For the Third Night

I believe in the truth
Of before, during, after.
Such a god; ourselves.
No map or mirror
Enfolding everything.

Take a moment.
Watch it slither
Then shrivel
On the shiny table.

Be present at the
Loss of everything
Thought an old bridge
Crumbling like cake.


Seventh Night

All the lights that guide our days
Small, mundane and functional
Collaborate to frame the ways
We navigate the practical.

Do they make an ideal flame?
Not obviously, no.
But defeated, old, and lame
We might laud their glow.