Supper is past, presents litter the floor,
torn paper crowds the tree.
The kids are all upstairs playing Nintendo
or downstairs watching TV.

Last pieces of pie are now settling sluggishly;
a dying fire spills stifling heat.
Tree-lights fan out under half-open eyelids
heavy & ready for sleep.

But lo!
without warning
through smalltalk & TV drone & some syrupy radio tune
an emptiness
descending
like an angel on frigid wings lucid & piercing & true
and we find ourselves stirred.
And in dim sleepy satedness some holy Missingness
awakens at the center of everything,
for though we ate all we wanted and got what we asked for,
we're wanting.
More pointed and painful now with nothing interposing,
we're wanting.