40 the poems
I was in a hypnagogic state when he arrived/ I couldn’t move. I registered sound hazily as Father Christmas moving round the furniture/televisual rumbles from the Next Door Fan of Japanese cartoons/ the scud of branches unhinged by the storm. No pawing at the door could be for us, not this night. I was lulled — so when I found the tree upturned and scalped of needles, angels dismembered, presents gone, the carpet studded with glass, I felt almost serene to see what I had missed/ the long unwished for caller come at last.