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.