After dark <br />Near the South Dakota border, <br />The moon is out hunting, everywhere, <br />Delivering fire, <br />And walking down hallways <br />Of a diamond. <br /> <br />Behind a tree, <br />It ights on the ruins <br />Of a white city <br />Frost, frost. <br /> <br />Where are they gone <br />Who lived there? <br /> <br />Bundled away under wings <br />And dark faces. <br /> <br />I am sick <br />Of it, and I go on <br />Living, alone, alone, <br />Past the charred silos, past the hidden graves <br />Of Chippewas and Norwegians. <br /> <br />This cold winter <br />Moon spills the inhuman fire <br />Of jewels <br />Into my hands. <br /> <br />Dead riches, dead hands, the moon <br />Darkens, <br />And I am lost in the beautiful white ruins <br />Of America.<br /><br />James Arlington Wright<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/having-lost-my-sons-i-confront-the-wreckage-of-t/
