January 2 2025
I’ve never met a hill I wouldn’t die on. You
were several marked by paths you now deprive
me of and sparsely dotted next to riverbeds
the pelicans
can no longer drink near.
We pass the Rhône and imagine starless nights
unpainted. The uninteresting forever unaccounted
for by a canvas they refused to etch across.
I miss
the one I beg to form the Pleiades.
She too fades away with the night.
Lonely boats row in pairs. I flicker as
the observant streetlamp passed under.
Your quick reprieve on the waves. My
photons brushing against tender skin.
The fog grows thicker over Arles. The
smoke cruel cut and in my sclera. Cold
shatters the panes. No bell chimes left
for thinking of your hills and such.