A tin-voiced priest shunted us
from sanctity of whispering porch
to chapel's transformed  belly.
Holier than us praised the Holy night,
rolled their eyes, prayed, praised.
We'd see them, pewed deep
and dense, maybe envied them their
wool-warm faith, their even voices.
Untouchable.

Our birthday present was our pesence and
the sacrificed last drinking hour.
We sought neither praise nor blessings
amongst the mumbling multitude.
Some confused, blood-borne sense
bade us come, oh come,
and, Magi like, we came,
paid our unsolemn dues
before skulking into silent night
feeling, in the cold promise of sleep,
a gift of belonging settle upon us.