All ages, in silence we attend the singular
event. The baby squalls as normal, kicking up a fuss. His mother tends to the
work at hand. Father handles the usual old peace stuff. Middle-aged angels in
human form declare the childhood words. Myrrh men arrive with their humble gifts
of life and death. It could be any one of us, at a loss for words any time, even
this usual old tail end of December, in any age. Us, who chuck wobblies and get
it wrong and deal with stuff, our combustible words dissolving into silences
flesh wises up to.
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