A man in terror of impotence
or infertility, not knowing the difference
a man trying to tell something
howling from the climacteric
music of the entirely
isolated soul
yelling at Joy from the tunnel of ego
music without the ghost
of another person in it, music
trying to tell something the man
does not want out, would keep if he could
gagged and bound and flogged with chords of Joy
where everything in silence and the
beating of a bloody fist upon
a splintered table.
Arthur Magazine 
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her work astonishes and compels. I love the work of the late Adrienne Rich.
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typo here. I believe the third to last line should read, “where everything IS silence” instead of “in”