a year later I’m where we were going to go
lips sticking to the rim of an icy brass cup
liquor chilled as if by vertigo, though sweet.
to dip my fingers in the clear melted wax
of this candle waning low, solemn, gold
is to pray that I’m not here but there.
and he’s uptown somewhere doing something,
pockets full of beeswax, coconut oil
lanolin, rosemary and limonene
a balm for the dry winter and for me.