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More poems by James WrightJames Wright | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by James WrightBooks by James Wright

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

James Wright

After dark
Near the South Dakota border,
The moon is out hunting, everywhere,
Delivering fire,
And walking down hallways
Of a diamond.

Behind a tree,
It ights on the ruins
Of a white city
Frost, frost.

Where are they gone
Who lived there?

Bundled away under wings
And dark faces.

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.

Added: 2 Dec 2001 | Last Read: 16 Jan 2018 4:07 PM | Viewed: 7089 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/2147/ | Viewed on 16 January 2018.
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