The moon is missing Old stories oppress the scorned clock's hand What is this interminable waiting? Lost are the World's metaphors Lost and fled to a dark place Once beehives born in new orchards They now dissolve in time's dead way And die in the viciousness of niceness Densely social and devoid of empty Do I dare ask these forbidden questions She is missing, missing to me I know where she is but I can't find her but now I see the harvest corn and a bursting city of goldenrod