A Moon At Maximum Eclipse

1905. Some men band together
as The Lucky Syndicate. By day
they dig holes in the ground
behind a saloon. At night they huddle
together and weep, drunk
on rough beer and in love with gold.

One man thinks of his dad.
The way he walked. As though
he had little feet
inside his feet. Where
is he?

Another man lights a match,
reads from an almanac:
“The eclipse will be visible
just as the moon
is setting and the sun
rises in the East. This will occur
at the same time everywhere.”
What does it mean, the same time?

They look up
at the dry dark, too hard
for a shovel.

Maybe then they decide
to stop hunting and keep
what’s here:
Old skeleton tree of pain
and love, air and the wisdom
of air—what knows,
what is alone.