by Peter Cooley
Such clouds the sky has set across my eye
as if something had happened in the dark,
to the dark, two millennia ago.
Or while I slept, some everlastingness,
and these all heirs, all shape-shifting, all ghosts.
Out of such insubstantials I can raise the plot,
characters, rising action, denouement,
that death prefigured in a jar of myrrh,
new weathers turning themselves cow and ass,
shepherds, Joseph, Mary, the enshrined child.
Finally, wise men, star. Nothing original
where I’m transfiguring legend from the air.
The clouds assemble, everything loose, in place
for earth’s dispersements, for my re-assembling.
Christmas Eve. The world come round again.