On the edge of a hill, on a warm day
I asked you to marry me, and you said:
“There is nothing, not one thing that remains

for me to consider.” The wedding came
and went, we settled into a long bed
on the edge of a hill, on a warm day.

In September, we tirelessly made
new friends, then lovers, who’d come to forget
there is nothing, not one thing that remains

constant in this life. We lost them in May,
and then became bitter, filled with contempt
on the edge of a hill, on a warm day.

“I love you” we said each night through the pain,
like a rote incantation to the dead.
There is nothing, not one thing that remains

sacred, I thought. By June, you moved away,
the house empty, our money divided.
On the edge of a hill, on a warm day
there is nothing, not one thing that remains.