Every year the holidays—
like a tree whose leaves turn
only brown.

Amidst incandescent wicks,
we crave the storms
that render all equally

naked. Our glass
rests against our midline, full
to bursting.

Is there a word for what
we haven’t got? Psilocybin,
someone tells us, grows

in woodchips. We raid
the mulched garden, each
a gardener.

What will we do
with our expanded
consciousness?

Share it on social media
with the cloud that sits
atop two contrails

like a custard-cone.
All the while pretending
not to, we long to return

to work, to the tasks
that halve our time
with ourselves.

The dog senses our distress
and graces our laps
with his grey muzzle.