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.