(the Anne Sexton tapes)
The greatest sadness of a female poet
is not to be overlooked; or out dulled by men;
but to be revered by tight faced virgins
in amorphous black clothes, and finger nails.
Black-holes suck them in, closer than
the cunt walls feared by boys, and neurotics
who have just given birth, confusing tightness
with thoughts exchanged: the lolling dildo
of projected voice. One might almost weep
with laughter, were such things allowed.
Jokes mangled, points missed, statues
raises for the pulling down, of panties,
in some quiet bearded backroom,
between one revolutionary, and the last.