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Having Lost My Sons I Confront The Wreckage Of The Moon: Christmas 1960
Near the South Dakota border,
The moon is out hunting, everywhere,
And walking down hallways
Of a diamond.
Behind a tree,
It ights on the ruins
Of a white city
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
Into my hands.
Dead riches, dead hands, the moon
And I am lost in the beautiful white ruins
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