Saturday, February 27, 2010

Sylvia Plath

We ache for the complex
Of her pauses
And the sighs of eyes
Silent in their verse
Glimmering with insolence
Or guesses incapable
Of knowing
The difference between ashes and
And what comes

The ordinary
Was instructed
Into our malleable minds
Like the hum of a stalker
Silent in its terror
She is laughing at us.

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