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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.
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.

by James Wright
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