My breath is white as I talk
to myself in the March night.

The moon is bright and ballsy,
a deep sky aboriginal Monty.

Orion lies low on the horizon
beat down by Ursa Major.

His shoulder is red, bloody
as I toast the crawling dawn.

“My friend we will meet again,
perhaps soon, even September –

When the phoebes thrust their tail
Hungry for that procreating flight.”

I will miss your tilting, abrasive
stance in the cold night sky –

Threatening any who talk but don’t
Walk: touching them with Jacob’s limp.

I wish I could see Socrates or Jesus
reflected in the light of your distant

eyes. Perhaps I do. The twinkle in
Betelgeuse certainly disguises

The laughter of the incorporeal wise
who teach but write only in the dust.

Do I want to die in the cold, moldy
ground or ascend into the frozen sky?

Orion looks down with a slightly crooked
smile, remembering scenes mistold in our

Apocryphal history books. I want to look
down from the frosty sky and smile

Crooked, remembering that tomb there –
Empty, despite the correcting crowds.