We’ll make the writers scribble paradox instead;
we’ll put a stop to the word incarnation.

We’ll pull the word out of the mouth, a series
of silk scarf syllables, pull the magic
out till we each have to feel our own teeth
and mumble the word mystery.

Mumble, hark the heralds, mumble,
in excelsis, mumble, shepherds pie
and indigestion, running to the run
down room to find *that thing* wrapped
in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger:
mumble mumble mystery,
mumble mumble bow the knee.
What is it? Manna?

No word comes to mind,
to heart, to pen, to tongue,
to have or to hold.

We the magi have come for a star
and have found a toddler. The command
-ment stands so we kneel and open boxes
of our best doctrines, our very best words,
that you, small king, may be crowned with
incarnation.

moves and removes