My star-shaped holepuncher could fill anything with the absence of stars,
and I sat outside
in the cold air:
a pile of leaves, my punched canvases.
I would let them take the wind when they needed to leaf.
Art belongs to itself alone,
and I was waiting up for Venus.
When the twinkle in the sky became clear
to carry a name with certainty,
a bright white brighter than anything else
in the dark night,
I punched the sky in seven-year-old joy,
and felt something a few feet away
I froze, and it froze
for a minute
I saw his masked face
and ringed tail.
He held a punched leaf up to the sky,
and shifted till the moonlight
twinkled on his fur
like he was a galaxy.
And when he had covered himself
in all the moonstars he could carry,
shaped by leaf and light,
the little bandit