The Last Gun of the 20th Century

A Poem

The Last Gun of the 20th Century
To the Possum

Let me go, you and me and me,
I am spread upon the sky; Let us see.

The whole of life stretches out its languid body
Across the abyssal gulch in defeat;
A wisp of cloud in front the moon.

Angels and archfiends crowd the station,
Like black petals on the golden bough,
Their whispers lurk brooding,
Like a green thought in a green shade.

And though the temple steps, 
(They flee from me when I did seek)
Be they built up or they cast down,
Will ask and plead “What now?”
And all the woods will answer and their echo ring.

And so, our flightless souls stay hovering
Atop the darkened waters waiting
Expectant—the arrival of light,
And the momentous blast of sight.

And the Lord said, “Light be.”

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