The moon rises early, huge, low,
haloed, pale. Hushing the day.
The moment of nothing to say
grows long, long like rope.

Oh wrong clock, oh pendulum
unswinging—I hate this. Why
will my thoughts not change? Why
can I not change my mind?

The more things stay the same
the more I’m estranged. I envy
saintliness, but saints have no envy.
They don’t envy me!

Hush, hush. Have nothing
to say, have no hope.
Hate what you love.
Let go your rope.