Full moon. Our Narragansett gales subside <br />and the land is celebrating men of war <br />more or less, less or more. <br />In valleys, thin on headlands, narrow & wide <br />our targets rest. In us we trust. Far, near, <br />the bivouacs of fear <br /> <br />are solemn in the moon somewhere tonight, <br />in turning time. It's late for gratitude, <br />an annual, rude <br />roar of a moment's turkey's 'Thanks'. Bright & white <br />their ordered markers undulate away <br />awaiting no day. <br /> <br />Away from us, from Henry's feel or fail, <br />campaigners lie with mouldered toes, disarmed, <br />out of order, <br />with whom we will one. The war is real, <br />and a sullen glory pauses over them harmed, <br />incident to murder.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-61-full-moon-our-narragansett-gales-s/
