I look up not knowing
what to expect of the sky or
where the moon would show,
not to say expecting nothing—
that’s just not how the world goes,
my fingers cold and houses throwing
bright Christmas colors across
the blinking distraction of
my periphery, headlights sweeping
the old eyeballs briefly blind,
words working to find
focus, while the mind gazes
power mad in its pick and choose
solving the mystery by starting
at the end and writing backwards,
first quarter becoming moon
Jupiter to one side, the atmosphere
gaining ghosts as the clouds
barely hesitate before
the facts blur, obscured
by inevitable weather
and shiny things that glint and
glimmer as sight glides on
the skin of memories,
the seasons of how we thought
we were saying who we
are in these nested givens.
Our lives as bright as ice
as our winters bite down
into our glistening bones.