Moon Sonnet
In lunatic rage she overthrows the chair
(Antique, my family's), pivots fists on thighs,
And bending taut as a drawn bow to stare
Me down, declaims her scorn: "Self-pity, lies!"
The boy stands behind us in the open doorway,
Stranded by the flood of shouted rage and shame.
He is more afraid to leave us than to stay.
In us the tide ebbs quickly as it came.
The moon gives fits. You never know. Last night
Over the drapes it shone on us by turns,
Mounted on each other. Charged with moonlight,
Blood runs to extremities, sense burns.
The moon full rules us when its doubling rays
Ignite these fires, the antic heart's displays.
Page(s) 7
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