AT WINTER

The moon’s a fat convict
of the stick-stalk trees
then escapes,
a desperado loose in the yard,
a bruising undresser of raw light,
naked of color.

How sensual, then,
the tangerine and azure flames
dancing behind the fire-glass window,
the shining paper,
the glitter of Christmas lights
framing the hollow scene
outside.

At winter
we go into humanity’s cave
to feather our interiors with dreams.
Become fetal guardians of the flame.
Rearrange the bones.