by Joanna Guthrie

Sometimes the Moon when newly risen sits
as if a remnant in a bay, like it’s a wounded boat –
or else balloon as it deflates; old soft crab-apple caught
in the cleft of a bare tree. It sails out this evening
sallow over Bungay, beyond the looming stretches
where I drive through the dark, remembering rookeries.
A house strung with lit bulbs approaches,
glancing in the eye then gone. And yes, I recognise

it’s me that’s punctured, is the vessel on her side,
the shrunk balloon. And me it is who thrums
my fingers on the wheel, decides to take the quiet
road home, sets early, beds my glow down, gleams,
waits for my own waning to a black iron axe-point,
to hid-away light: not needed, not called-upon.