James Wright

 

Having Lost My Sons, I Confront The Wreckage Of The Moon: Christmas, 1960.

After dark 

Near the South Dakota border, 

The moon is out hunting, everywhere, 

Delivering fire, 

And walking down hallways 

Of a diamond. 

Bundled away under wings 

And dark faces. 

Behind a tree, 

It ights on the ruins 

Of a white city

Frost, frost. 

Where are they gone 

Who lived there? 

I am sick 

Of it, and I go on

Living, alone, alone, 

Past the charred silos, past the hidden graves 

Of Chippewas and Norwegians. 

This cold winter 

Moon spills the inhuman fire 

Of jewels 

Into my hands. 

Dead riches, dead hands, the moon 

Darkens, 

And I am lost in the beautiful white ruins 

Of America.