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The Well

 At sixteen I believed the moonlight 
could change me if it would.
I moved my head on the pillow, even moved my bed as the moon slowly crossed the open lattice.
I wanted beauty, a dangerous gleam of steel, my body thinner, my pale face paler.
I moonbathed diligently, as others sunbathe.
But the moon's unsmiling stare kept me awake.
Mornings, I was flushed and cross.
It was on dark nights of deep sleep that I dreamed the most, sunk in the well, and woke rested, and if not beautiful, filled with some other power.

by Denise Levertov
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