The Statues of Children
Here the abstruse moonlight falls
on a field as blank as sky.
Birds nestle in a flight of desks
and build their nests from pencil shavings.
Here are kept
all the statues of children.
They are all naked; they have taken off
Out here, the self-
consuming fires burn billions of years,
and faraway places are
unreachable as faraway times.
Stone animals, pure and ruthless
as the white trajectory across
an April ball-field—as it turns out
we don’t need them. So they come here.