this is what goes on the last page

 

we fall, as the year
into december, so
wetly longed-for.

the rush
that calls our quiet
is the absence

of sirens.
the rails we walked
for so long

now blink
into forever,
a smoke-curl

on january’s horizon.
your left hook
is useless

against the coming
cold.
that kind

of hardness
can only melt
or burn.