The Curse of the Magi, by Eva H.D.

There are those who await us, trucks, elbow grease men & women carabiner-clipped; the gospel choir plotting resurrection at the strangled church where ghost boys shoot degenerative hoops with Jesus, another ghost.

On the outskirts of town, I’m told, our love is locked in a basement with the Kyoto Accord. We meld and separate, a marbled vichyssoise. The beaten horse of it, this infatuation. This nag.