Monday Poem

Pale moon


—for Owen
I unclip the latches of your seat
lift and pull you from the car
into full light, into the light of the thing
which dimples the gauze of space
and holds you in that cup
like a ball in a ring of roulette

in my arms you turn,
and from the cuff of your coat,
shoot your finger east at the pale face
of second-hand light hung in blue
and bay “Moon!”
the way I cry “Improbable!”

but you are two and I am
much closer to the gate of
utter space

Jim Culleny