Astrolabe

Like a flour smudge on an old blue apron,

A lunchtime moon thumbprints the sun-plowed,

Snow-scrabbled heavens of Harmony, Maine.

Last night three cops shot Danny McDowell

On South Road, down by the shack you and I rented

That hard winter when the northern lights glowed

And the washing machine froze and I got pregnant.

I built a five-inch snowboy for our half-inch embryo.

You took a picture of it cradled in my mittens.

But today, too late, too late, I see I forgot to worry

About this moon, this ominous rock waxing half-bitten

Over our clueless sentimental history.

Picture it falling. A white egg, neat and slow.

It doubles. Redoubles. Till all we see is shadow.

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