The driveway shakes her inner ear:
somebody’s coming or going.
Darling of deconstruction, give her
a sweater, precious lamb, to get a thread.
Tactile satisfaction of destruction, yank
until recipient’s a naked babe.
On her advent calendar some tiny doors
should not be opened. Never mind.
Pay attention to one blinking light
at treetop, murmur of her heating unit
under wool. She knows the string of cows
is from her grandmother, she spies
a painted pig from Uncle George.
Here’s a rabbit made of glass,
here’s a straw man to sacrifice.
What liquid in the bubble lights
boils red and anxious vertically,
what toothless grande dame 
dented the teething ring’s silver bell
now dangling by a thread of velvet—
ornament, memento. Demoiselle
of deconstruction, don’t forget you know
how not to be destructive.
Con’s a game of knowing for a girl
in fur muff singing Greensleeves
at the service, counting hats.
Out a door in her head, questions coming
about ghosts in trinities,
wine and table with a crush of men,
a con job. Darling, don’t you think
that peacock feather hat
at the back of the chapel’s full
of everlasting life, and will not perish?