December

Alex, do you think God appreciates us
this time of year, going out

in knit maroons, black leather? I’m still no good
at smoking but I liked best the part of your party

where people snuck outside in small groups—
laughter and something else burning

their effigies against the sharp air. Like you said of Provence,
I had a horrible time, but I loved it.

How the light there touched everything
different, the way that first night

he climbed into your bed and you traced
a map of his back with your palms.

This was the year you took to tiny crosses,
said of religion, It’s not tone-deaf; it’s timeless.

The year I took to crossing avenues in your honor,
impulsively, against the hand.