All fools and all favorites
and kings of us
are gone, and rain—the stars
are out again,

another year is gone

since this same day
sat down

and we were quiet

looking out the window
drunk on Christmas.

The moon out, and it’s warm

as spring.

We did see Christ march
down that empty street

leading out of Arizona, drunk as we were
and covered with ice. Breath in anger kicking the car
in the morning
that won’t start,
and tugging our bag of bottles of beer
where we don’t talk

he walked crunch
out of the sidestreet
and let his breath out,
still hanging in the morning

*

People might be here,
are not, are not found,
and any touch tears wet
like paper
how long only to lie
out on the ground
under the cleared sky
to dry back
Another, each

Christmas

when all men

are closer

the day
if none, if nothing
else,
the anniversary

— 9 Dec 62

Originally published in White Wall Review 40 (2016)