Five Thirty AM
Out the eastern window at
five-thirty this morning
are the pear tree, the sycamore,
and the high hill, the crest of it
with a new moon just risen
above it, a crescent tipped beyond
the dark trees, so clear and golden,
a jewel—yes, one might say a jewel—
and already behind it the first
dawnlight spreading faint and
soft and gray, like a mass of minute
dead angels’ wings coming closer,
closer. The crescent is less bright.
Soon it will be invisible. Oh, there is
only an instant of vouchsafing!
What can one do but write this
little poem, finish the wine, take
the sleeping pills, and go to bed.