With a pocketknife left over from his previous life,
Santa carves a piece of driftwood. In his hands
two children form and he sets them upright
beside him on the rocks. They all face the fire
as the red tide recedes in the moonlight. All
is quiet, all is bright. Oilrigs blink like Christ-
mas lights on the horizon, and beat back
the dark at the edge of Santa’s mind.
He climbs back to his rooftop, leaves
the children for children to find.