by Philip F. Clark
A cataract moon cloaked
in its charcoal fog slowly seeps
among the trees;
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 horses sweat,
riderless. The widows are not surprised.