The sober Capricorn moon

The sober Capricorn moon needs a little magic
in her life bent as she is like the bow of the
huntress at rest there in the small room her
arrows spent the night long pierced with
bright places where she pointed and aimed
now heaven itself strained across our minds
by her careful weighing and selecting all
however but her own fate perhaps surrendered
to a gin and tonic half way between five and
six at each day's end though never after
having dined. She served fruit cocktail
I remember, from an ornate Chinese bowl,
green, I recall, with intricate stories
suggesting themselves in the glaze
but then everything she reached into
seemed to have a pattern one never
noticed until she began and she usually
began far beyond the beginning as we
mortals know it. You know, I suppose,
of what I speak. I hope you do, because
the night is cold and she is far away
in her small room, and close enough
to the television screen to touch the captions
orchestrated by a deft touch of her remote.
I hope you do know what I mean. How the word
was in the beginning a sound so close
so intimate so akin and simultaneous its utterance
brought us and everything else into existence.
You know. That word. And the huntress
sober tonight, needing a little magic in her life.