The venetians creak – fog’s tonnage.
Condensation gasps
	on glassy corners, gloomy Xmas
   dec. The butter’s thickened in its crock like
dripping. A constellation of barbed starfish rises
from the mug of tea toward the ceiling
   shooting watery cannonballs intermittently
as Hippolytus de Marsiliis’ fingers. The iMac, too,
   is punctuated, each poorly catalogued knuckle
   eroded


	              like an Apostle by my salt. Only
I, oddly overlooked, am hardhearted to this
   seasonal affective disorder.

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