The Long and the Short of It

For H.B. at the solar eclipse
The crescent sun, waning,
Moon-lidded, peers
Through a pinhole and lights
On a wide white card
The children hold up
In the darkening yard
At the edge of the swerving
Path of totality;
There is no wind
That could lift the hair
Of a girl who might run
In shadows too pale
To be so short;
The light has thinned,
Milked of its richness.

Fading interior
Dusk contracts
In this instant of arctic
Summer midnight
Where, silent and still
In the living room,
Two sad, fat men’s
Massive bodies, hung
In the net of a moment,
Keep vigil, this shortest
Night of their lives.

They who look out of
The windows are darkened.