I wasn’t thinking about death
perched that Christmas morning
with you
overlooking the north side
from an ancient gravestone
atop the second tallest hill

The cold seeped through me
from the marble slab we sat on
slowly honing back the dull
from the alcohol
as the clouds flew by
though there was no wind
to speak of

every now and then
we could see the moon
while we talked about history
all the frieinds
we don’t call anymore
the houses we lived in
there, and there

the trees like fossils
accenting muddied grass
as far as we could see
in the cool poluted city light
we talked about old parties
the drunk and the wet
and the foolish

and I wasn’t thinking about death
in that cemetery
on that Christmas morning
even after all the signs