Photo of Home From Home
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.