The time is. 
The air seems a cover, 
the room is quiet.

She moves, she 
had moved. He 
heard her.

The children 
sleep, the dog fed, 
the house around them

is open, descriptive, 
a truck through the walls, 
lights bright there,

glaring, the sudden 
roar of its motor, all 
familiar impact

as it passed 
so close. He 
hated it.

But what does she answer. 
She moves 
away from it.

In all they save, 
in the way of his saving 
the clutter, the accumulation

of the expected disorder— 
as if each dirtiness, 
each blot, blurred

happily, gave 
purpose, happily— 
she is not enough there.

He is angry. His 
face grows—as if 
a moon rose

of black light, 
convulsively darkening, 
as if life were black.

It is black. 
It is an open 
hole of horror, of

nothing as if not 
enough there is 
nothing. A pit—

which he recognizes, 
familiar, sees 
the use in, a hole

for anger and 
fills it 
with himself,

yet watches on 
the edge of it, 
as if she were

not to be pulled in, 
a hand could 
stop him. Then

as the shouting 
grows and grows 
louder and louder

with spaces 
of the same open 
silence, the darkness,

in and out, him- 
self between them, 
stands empty and

holding out his 
hands to both, 
now screaming

it cannot be 
the same, she 
waits in the one

while the other 
moans in the hole 
in the floor, in the wall.


Is there some odor 
which is anger,

a face 
which is rage.

I think I think 
but find myself in it.

The pattern 
is only resemblance.

I cannot see myself 
but as what I see, an

object but a man.

with lust for forgiveness, 
raging, from that vantage, 
secure in the purpose,

double, split. 
Is it merely intention,

a sign quickly adapted, 
shifted to make

a horrible place 
for self-satisfaction.

I rage. 
I rage, I rage.


You did it, 
and didn’t want to,

and it was simple. 
You were not involved,

even if your head was cut off, 
or each finger

from its shape until it broke,

and you screamed too 
with the other, in pleasure.