I used to leave this granite¹ 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 loomed² 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， belly³ 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 chunk⁴ of old ice.