Oh child, sleep easy, sleep
in the turning to winter, on the
hinge of the rounded year:
Until Shiloh comes,
with his bones made of
sunshine, and coffee grounds
his blood, and his feet
will turn the hills to butter
and he’ll fill the skies with wine.
Yes, when Shiloh comes,
with his mouth of bronze
and his sugared clothes, to melt
the waxen hills—his fleshly tongue
the lightning burst,
his eyes are living coals.
Shiloh comes on back a mount
of gingerbread, peppermint sword
in radiant hand. The
scepter has not passed
from Judah, and now the
tribute enters in, like a lion
if not like a murdered lamb.
Kiss him, this lovely son, lest he
be angry—
you will find him wrapped in
swaddling-clouts.
