Twelve spires, held taut, landscape receding, giving way
to brick, to fire, to the crawl of car on concrete, that sound
of tire against gravel, a kind of consumption here too.

Between, strung yarn, Christmas bulbs, oriental poppies.
Little folded gifts: receipts in plastic bags.

We could strum it all like a harp, catch in our teeth
the song as it rises, we could push and pull against horizon
and let it all settle around us, the fire out, nothing left
but presents and ash.