your list
he said. He doesn’t like
black on white. He can do
with less marigold and crimson

skies. Less waterfalls and
lullabies. He’s a doctor with degree
to the degree that he doesn’t
see a blue bird chasing a worm,

or the smell of leaves
as they burn. To the degree
of mercury that has him sweat. And the
mint that covers the garlic from lunch

on his breath. And I, as Santa
check twice crossing out the x's
and o's like a game of tic-tac-toe. Not
hanging him with my vertical lines, or

salting the page with feverish pines.