“41. The angles of the moon over, through those trees” in “Musing”
41.
The angles of the moon over, through those trees,
Ochre, pearl, bleach, cast in Princeton
Not far from battlefield and graveyard,
The Revolution no longer counted
In months. People of different crafts
And colours are buried here, saw something
Like this. Their blood moved like the tides
And the windows of the sun cast
Its reflection, its face on the water,
The surprise of deer in the dark wood, over
Three hundred shot, culled, felled
By a theory of conservation, the smell
Of gunsmoke like the myth it left
Behind the dream the moon might have been.
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