Our Christmas shopping must go on,
there's no stopping it; already at dawn
it's the sound of puking wallets
on the street, as purses yawn.
A gift card, a new gadget, a face lift…
Behind: those market hands, invisible and swift,
control their main commodity:
the definition of gift.
So we shop, in meager imitation,
praying gifts might still be new creation:
for perhaps grace is such, even these hands
could copy incarnation…
When the only true shopping was done
before the world was begun,
and all our gifts but therapy
for the wound of being so outdone.
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