4 January Poem by Morgan Michaels

Xrist, Almighty!
both resolutions snapped
at a rate of 0.5 per day;

before the gaudy pine
(to which cling tinsel-bits)
is tossed in the gutter;

and well before the three kings
come with dull gold
to barter on the mulch-man's behalf.

I don't care, really-
vows so easily broken
surely can't've been meant to be kept.

Meanwhile, my soul's a crimson sail
that unfurls like a poppy, nightly
but tightens each day to a bud.

It rolls on and on-
It would dye the sea red
before agreeing to be stone-washed white.