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.