the darkest night

on this night of the proverbial
manger and doors slammed on
the faces of the blessed it is
not necessary that you believe
in virgin births or the tight script
of canonical texts or (especially)
whatever you have been told
you must believe or die
not believing. it is enough to inhale
the scent of old hay and animal
dung, feel the stars gesture with
faint arms of light on the most
lightless of nights and wonder
if something blessed should be
given birth to among the shuffling
homeless of the streets or your heart
would you know it? or bolt the door?
the donkey brays in his stall
discordantly, a cold wind
finds all the cracks in the jackleg
door and makes short work of
them, the wise men come
make unrecorded pronouncements
and then they go. none but you
will ever know they visited.
no one will ever believe you.
for you alone they have come.
yes, it is hard to hope for new stars
when there are rats in the walls
and now the ceiling, orangutans
squatting in places of power
oil oozing from open wounds.
always, there have been murderers.
always, someone with a kind
face is born on a slate cold night.
the struggle goes on, will go on
forever regardless if it is the
nightfall your heart chooses
to wait for or the dawn.