I’m writing in December.

The almanacs call this

a cold full moon. I watch it

shadow through its veils.

My book says of amor fati:

want nothing more than what

comes at you; love necessity; relive life’s phases

in round time, evermore.

Pain, unpain, joy, pain,

groceries, car woes, plague.

Our master plan of repetitions

that can’t be planned for.

We’ll never want things back.

We’ll rush every instant

as the last. I say love.

I repeat it. I want to drink

the lived, absent episodes

of any hour, as we drink

each other’s words, on the porch,

under trees, on shores and cliffs,

and live in time outside time.

Lunar life floods existence.

We beings of an hour

memorize the tides

yet take our time with things,

we of water, salt, bone.

Less moon tomorrow, love,

then more of less, then repeat.

We’ll shout across the veils,

reveal each to each,

in freezing winter light,

sublunars fast and ripening.