F.
… —for O.
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 us 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 “Mooon!”
the way I cry “Improbable!“
but you are only two and I am
much closer to the gate of
utter space
Jim Culleny
3/2/18
Blink 