I used to leave this granite house
after everyone else was asleep,
and, walking down the hill, come to the
woods just behind you snapped
this photo, old friend, who think I can bear
to look at it.
The full moon loomed so close
I'd think I could reach out and gather it
into folds, until I noticed
one star fallen out of the side,
blinking to know where it was,
dead probably, by then, or now.
One night when I was seven
I stood in the dining room, staring
at the decanter on the drinks cart
shining like fool's gold, its liquor smelling
of honey and rosin, belly flat
as mother's breast
as she lay back to sleep beside me.
Later, I caught the moon,
through the dormer window nearest the spot
this photo was taken, a crescent
chunk of old ice.