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.