From "The Moon and the Yew Tree"
B. Rands
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the skies* -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.