Denise Levertov
Terror (1960)
Face-down; odor
of dusty carpet. the grip
of anguished stillness.
Then your naked voice, your
head knocking the wall, sideways,
the beating of trapped thoughts against iron.
If I remember, how is it
my face shows
barely a line? Am I
a monster, to sing
in the wind on this sunny hill
and not taste the dust always,
and not hear
that rending, that retching?
How did morning come, and the days
that followed, and quiet nights?
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