Silence, please, or the end

I would make mute the earth

And carry out the rest in silence.

Am I supposed to be weaving something great?

Casting my first corners on rough edges

Of distant stars, planets, plumbing

Tiny, tedious wells

Of profound emotion--

I grow tired. My own skin

Sloughs off in my dreams, and I have no eyes

For myself, possessing a vision

That can never turn in

And against me.

Quiet, a quiet life

With no more wanting. I won’t even ask

For more of what I have, for I’ve had enough

Of myself, a mouthful, a gut so full

That there is room for nothing else,

Like a child carried to term and well past,

Wishing for a life outside herself.