Is it enough to say that the moon was my friend when I was a boy, how many times I found myself looking at her, not him, no man in the moon for me, a woman, the moon is a woman, how could she not be, Diana, a woman, the goddess of the moon, my father was a Romanophile . . . my windows facing east by north-east this October morning early in a Jewish month, I say, you must understand, yes, early in this month, Venus chased by the cream-white head of an open-mouthed snake . . . the Milky Way was Via Lactae, in my home, a squirt from Hera’s tit, the story told to me as my Dad and I looked into the galactic plane from field in the Berkshires, Pittsfield, listing my mother’s mother’s older sister Anna Mae . . . Grady Miller, her and her husband Frank’s backyard at 48 Yorkshire Avenue.