The moon was in eclipse last night: the stars
and wheat stood in a group of everything
against the soft black air, and everything
half-waited, light. The copper edge of force
stood to its smoky shadow: the moon fought
dark, first unaware, then sickle-safe
in umber. What light shone, its huge curves gave and the white stars haloed that group. We sought
to hold the faces of the far warm black
in this hold of suns that still look on.
And, when the glowing partial speech was done,
light lifted. The full oval entered back
out of its joint breathing with our dark.
The grey mist slowly rose, forgetting, low,
and every star, remote in undertow,
asked of us, what new struggle hits the mark?