poem for the new year

Rosé waiting in the fridge and black
eye nearly evolved, just a smudge
of yellow on my cheek. Another
year is drawing itself to a close,

having retrieved its coat and nearly
departed, pausing in the doorway
before it steps in new snow. According to the
letters that fill my mailbox, life goes on:

graduation, wedding, mortgage, divorce.
A friend may no longer love him.
Another has a new dog. Baby.
And Michigan claims me, happily.

Sometimes at dawn, or after
long runs that end downhill,
a moment of exquisite clarity:
We are all going to die. But before that

we are all going to be okay. And then
it slips away and I am left
with only coffee to make
or dull shins to ice. Living on water,

you know exactly how little
you matter. In all that blue
your pink chest disappears. But tonight
the world will gather in small rooms,

or large ones blazing with light,
or start a fire. Tonight the corks
will be carried off in the mouths
of dogs happy to chew, while their owners

drink straight from bottles. My cheek
barely aches: now just another story
to tell over a full glass. How lucky
we all are. How exquisite this meaningless.