Night Without Lover, Moon Without Star

I sit quietly these nights in a taut,
Airless room, with yellow shutters that
Wink when I close them like a flash of
Final sun.

Then I reach into the cupboard for the
Glass you keep there. Now that a winter
Is whistling up that bare, unwanted leg
Of lane, I've taken to warming brandy in
The sturdy mass of pretty crystal glass.

Oh, Holy Wait...for those long, dull tones
Of intoxication, their formal rhythms
Leading me with the fist of a child to a
Firm and quiet sleep.