Find this small shadow -

There was a mouse eye,
Tycho at his distance,
breccia eyelashes flung to the limb.
The maria were the red of blood
spattered thinly, melting snow,
washed to rustwater and glazed
into a lens. Last night, without gloves,
I stood with binoculars
until my fingers were sticks.

Sub-zero, the cedar laid
over gypsum board inside deforms
and complains; the furnace blathers
on all night, never quite able to pace
the drafts. The mouse in the closet
is rasping at fallen crackers -

Tycho is bloodless
tonight; he'll need Imbrium for a pal.

I'm not going out.

.

Daniel Hansen

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