In Christmas Week

He rises in the dark and

Sees the sliver of moon

Above the skeletal trees,
With the tessellation of stars
In the lavender gap
Of the lingering night.

Looking southwest toward the tangle

Of roads and highways running outward,

His reflection presses back at him

In the glass, and he spots the solitary
White-yellow light across the yard

Of a neighbor up early.
The stars sparkle ornamentally at this hour —

Promising the pure possibility that not all

Gets lost and everything harmonizes.

The dealer doles out bad cards
Some days, but the bet today,
On this morning, seems worth it.

When the warranty expires,
The breakdown occurs,

And the complaints win out,
The stakes suddenly don't feel so high.
In the confines of the earthly, still humming,

— The lady moon so lifeless but so serene —

In memory headed west and haloed by her

Sisters, the stars, far above and infinite,
His reflection fades from behind the glass.