New Light on Spoons

In mesa saloons
I see the blue moon’s
spoons dissolve.
Somewhere new light
puts out the prairie
and the lantern and a bear
goes home in the night:

the thorax of pillage,
the man in the moonwalk
on the village:
an engine at large
swallowing at random
what atoms bury.

In the light before
that outlaws speech,
joined with the dumb
we stand by gallows,
we are gallows-ripe;
what then swallows
up earth in the air?
We are the end of the rope.

Meanwhile lilacs
in the dooryard bloom
for logs of war
as large as bear,
dogwood in Shiloh,
Savannah sad willow,
at Gettysburg, stones;

and, for the unknown tomb,
the eternal flame
in contorted spoons.

* mesa: tableland, as at Los Alamos, hometown of the bomb.
* “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed”: Whitman on Lincoln.
* Shiloh; Savannah; Gettysburg: Civil War battlefields.