Thirty years of Christmases
hasn't removed the emptiness that peels in fogbound nights,
hasn't broken the spirit of filling and tamping
the hole in the moon that I put there.
The fear of babies on stairs flood me
when the light from one of those punctured moons catches me
half awake beneath warm sheets
next to great loves and the cat that nests against my legs
in the stirring of my life-place:
the dreadful examination of a two-voiced monologue.
It doesn't seem that all these measurements
like years and dawns and photos
could beckon such a vivid spot
as the shadow from that fractured orb
yet blank and crisply saturated
when my sketches turn to stitches
and hem a rather ragged page of other wickless moons.
The hole I face and settle with
is here tonight for punctuation.
I will use it such, and marry it to all the others
to continue the night to the dawn.
The hand prints left from crawling will be lost to the treaded pile
as the stair-rails no longer resemble cribs
but spare the bowing back from another form of jail
in the movement to thirty-one.
The hole is still there
the same as when I first awoke
but has turned in orbit graciously
to preview the forgotten tunnel I thought a shadow
to help me, soothe me,
and to pocket all these fears of aging pointless
counted by holes in the moon.