American Passage

by Philip F. Clark

The moon, a cataract cloaked 
in its charcoal fog, slowly seeps 
among the trees; night's unguent.
Its glance is constant and white,
its arc known. I watch its brow of bone 
with constant wonder.

The long, slow funeral of America 
is taking its time; its pallbearers' hands 
strain heavy with the weight. 
The caisson creaks forward, the horse sweats, 
riderless. The widows are not surprised.