Face-up beneath the boughs
the world is sticky, green,
and “off a little left.”
The scent of peppermint
from Gracie’s tea-steam wraps
itself around the branches,
spiraling its way
inside the needle-space—
I know the lights will lack
this self-sufficiency,
rolled up in coils on
the floor, waiting for me.
The screws won’t tighten right,
or left, and “just a hair back”
is the needle breaking mine:
Just stop, it’s fine! I shout
amid the scent of evergreen,
but nothing really is—
It's all just sticky, off
a little to the left.
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