by John Pursch
Snow collects, Mass transpires, cathedral-goers flit about; children slink upstairs, damn the sleigh bells, and drain the treacle from Mother's sullied slap shots. Baiting all but a pure, ivory idol, midnight friezes coalesce, decorate the banister, hang suspenders on a Christmas boil, and serrate a kneeling pulpit. Wedged in soot at every stop, Santa traduces many a rocking housewife to stunt marsh, all beneath the trapdoor's trembling tinsel. Spilt bottles beautify his bald spot, sound the martial gong, sop up knees, and introduce a loaf of dread to making ruckus. Baking in her rooftop tether, Vixen comports herself wildly, coming out of stirring pods; creamed thus, owned by nomads, Rudolph's quivering bulb makes for gyro cheese, licks her tongue, and lives to plunge an otter into resting jewels. Booties on, mantle affixed, our newly sane Santa smarts off, abuts a chimney, and calcifies his florid shaving gears, hobbling half a moon. Frondose and harboring newts, indentured turtle doves shuck clean cornerstones, cooing in the dawn.