American Passage
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.
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.
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Other stories by Philip F. Clark
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So many writers mourn America today. Non readers remain oblivious waiting for the trickle down effect. But I swear there is a pulse yet. Cheers.
The moon stanza sets the mood for the dirge with its weighty details. And those all-knowing widows--perfect ending.
The moon stanza is beautiful.
Great stuff, Philip. I like this.
Thank you, all.
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