Mild day in winter, week before Christmas Turns out the tree in your front yard has been A holly tree all along, finally showing true colors As a taxi driver leaves the driveway and A neighbor in a red shirt crosses the concrete Sidewalk. The succulents to my side reach like alien Synapses, your white car looks at me cross- eyed, cinnabar brick damp with Peninsula fog. The morning’s cup of coffee still lingers on my Tongue, my body aches with last night’s indulgences And repressions. Warmth is relative, hangovers Are absolute. A pagan zodiac spins inside a Haze of long-lost memories, a gauntlet of trees. A gentler repercussion, a less insightful song, For I am only human, stains on my sleeve, Sleeping in when I should be producing anything. I forget what I am, except a shivering flesh vessel. I cannot remember what I was supposed To be.