|
|
| |
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.
James Wright
Read poems about / on: hunting, america, moon, sick, fire, city, winter, dark, alone, beautiful, tree, lost, christmas, son
|
|
User Rating: |
|
7.1
/10
(8 votes) |
|
|
|
|
| |
| Comments about this poem (Having Lost My Sons, I Confront the Wreckage of the Moon: Christmas, 1960 by James Wright) |
|
|
There is no comment submitted by members..
Click here to write your comments about this poem (Having Lost My Sons, I Confront the Wreckage of the Moon: Christmas, 1960 by James Wright)
|
|
|
|
James Wright
Free
Poetry E-Book:
E-mail this poem to e friend