The churchyard is frozennThe Salvation Army is closingnYour child is dozing asleepnIn the backseatnThe radio purrsnThe heater is sweeter than when your heart was hersnGoing homennI can’t get sleepnBethlehem is a flock of sheepnWith no shepherd to cling tonAn angel to sing tonMagi to bring you myrrhnThe radio purrsnnA mansion of saviorsnI-75 is a dark roadway linednWith the wild electricity of thenAnimal behaviorsnThe bodies of young deernThe fam’ly it leads tonThe sacrifice needs to not marnThe bright beacon starnnNo vacancy takennThe landscape is bone-chalk yet wet with vibrationsnFrom the lamp-lit gas stationsnOur few constellationsnTo course lapping anger ontonA manger of patiencennI’ll see you at morningnThe sterile air comingnFrom the yard will come white lightnThe memory of last nightnThe sickness and thickness of thenChristmas glow swarming