The Black Canal crawls towards The Basin. Christmas
stumbling down Raven Terrace with carry-outs and

junk food; someone stops to vomit from the twinkling bridge.
Friends in Santa hats urge her on like demented midwives.

This is no soft saxophone time, no Stille Nacht,
more metal, heavy, twisted. The last night-calls

fade off the street, babes get tucked into mangers and the
moon steps from her limo, pale-faced, dressed to kill.