Behind the eyelids the giant in the sky
is probably sightless, but that can't be known.

Cruciform from full-stretched arms his black robe drops
the whole way to the city. His fingers point

down at our rooftops. We don't know about him.
He knows all about us. By the fire the child's

nightgown is warmed for bed. It's a book entitled
Under the Sunset by Brain Stoker M.A.

my mother's copy in green cloth board 8vo
has nearly lost the spine but a few threads hold,

her childhood and mine. Tucked and kissed for the dark,
I shut my eyes too tight on a picture-book

for waking to loosen. Locked on to where people
believe in themselves, engraved fingers point down.