This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
