Until Shiloh

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.