The promise I made years ago to give up 
all attachments / how much
I’ve accumulated: wrapping paper,
dishes in the sink, the layers
of clothes hung on a chair
in the living room. Sleet blurs

the boundaries between these days
of similar shade / pavement
reflecting the sky as I roam through neighborhoods
where the Christmas lights imitate
stained glass. If I go cross-eyed or focus
in on my peripheries, I notice

a soft glow encircling everybody’s head
& can identify myself
in the middle of it all. I push
the crescent of my thumbs together
in the shape of an eye &
press them to my forehead: Guide me
to the promised-land, bring us

home. Thoughts settle like snow
as I envision a flurry
that holds the earth’s rotation—
holds it long enough for us
to collect our breath & sink into the interim
of the seasons, into the stillness,
& surrender all but ourselves.