and it's snowing light flurries
that stick to cold ground
—ukranian not ukulele—
and ivanchuck’s goin
down the road to montréal
from chippytown abode
with backdoor perogie
following a car-snake
behind a sandtruck
slowly broadcasting
but fredchicken horizons
eventually and džo
hears his door buzzed
two jars of balkan juice
chilled with winter chillin’
thousands of miles or nautical
miles and kilometres of land
and sea from those mountains
to this river valley
on orthodox christmas
for the believers—not to
be confused with giving
and a sharing exchange
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