Harvest

For who had felt such pounding sky,

and none knew what it meant:

hard as an abacus the cirrus

red harvest moon pulsed big among,

then went.

Tankers at their anchors tugged,

geese had veed and gone,

we were too drunk

on this last day

to lace the high boots on.

Horizon burning frivolous,

the blue was cold that came,

on waspish wind, from Washington,

as though the warnings had run out

and what was left was shame.