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Eclipse of the Moon

I'm in terrible trouble about Tom
and nobody knows it
this is the way I am now
maybe someday it will be otherwise
and I will not like to think of this time
when I sat planning my spiders and my pleasure
arranging things, fixing things
knowing something is left out
myself as I was
neither woman nor child, and strong
neither the outline of a person, nor its ghost
and courageous, and glad as hell
to make a poem
you have to bore a hole
through the chest wall
to attack yourself
your conditions, your sleep
as though you were your mortal enemy
whom you had met at last on a lonely road
on a night when the stars froze your heart
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what I want is control
control of rage and desire,
coughing out, spewing
remnants of the past
like some volcano
intent on making
another Pompeii.
the real eludes
because it is control,
like taking the
writhing, twisting,
vehement hose,
out of control,
into your hand.
lacking control,
I lack desire,
and more, lack rage:
am myself still—
myself, out of reach in the mirror
which is distance.
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