That scoundrel, man—he gets used to everything.
Maybe the moon is full and bright
and earth reveals bones,
shallow graves in a shallow war.
Maybe the moon’s light plays
with the meek fire of men cramped
beneath a bridge in Ohio
as they watch gray chunks of ice
float down the river. Will the sky
smile when one slips beneath
the black water? He is not even
a statistic, deleted long ago
from government lists.
Maybe the moon glints off
Air Force One at thirty-five
thousand feet, an aluminum shining
star and the F-16 chase pilots
are impressed, reassured that
their CIC is favored by heaven.
There are no owls descending
under the moon light. And who
would watch their wings spread
and fold? A luckless rodent?
A run-away-teen exhausted
beneath some tree at the edge
of an unfamiliar field? Somewhere
a sleepless poet, maybe even
you, walks away the night voices.
Gary Metras has published 14 collections of poetry, most recently, Francis d'Assisi 2008 (Finishing Line Press, 2008). He has poems in recent issues of Pacific Coast Journal, Poetry East, and Poetry Salzburg Review. He is editor and letterpress printer of Adastra Press in Easthampton, Massachusetts.