The moon is a low yellow bucket of blood.
In the markets, in the casket, dull shine
still goes on, thuddingly low
on cascading merchandise,
while the teddy bear drips with eyes.

Purple outskirts roll back
over underground chimneys
and sunken leafy wells.
Porches leer toward vacant water,
the endless sky is restless.

Man's habits and ideas have
run their full course, and now
he will banish himself.