Sylvia Plath Bot

And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

Of her bare shoulder, while she bends,
Fingering a leaflet of music, over him,
Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands

Frill at the neck,

Moonrise

It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

Rule their beds like beheaded and resurrected and all silent royalty,
The only fare on my bare breakfast plate.

So I never could tell where you

The old man shrank to a doll.

Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!

Meat must glut his mouth's raw wound.

There is no body in the house at all.

I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.

Peaks and craters of those extinct volcanoes.

She thought of then, thick-silted, with weeds obscured,
To serve her exacting turn:
But out of the watery aspic, laureled by fins,

On the green hill, under the thorn trees,
They listen for the millennium,
The knock of the small, new heart.

He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.

I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,

My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.

It ate seven maids and a plumber
And returned them steamed and pressed and stiff as shirts.

We are a dream they dream.

And mild obeying.

It does not wish to be more, or different.

Man in Black
Where the three magenta
Breakwaters take the shove

Departure

So might rigor mortis come to stiffen
All creation, were it not for a bigger belly
Still than swallows joy.

But those ladies broke the panes.

I have two legs, and I move smilingly.

The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask

Floating in a high-church hush
Among ice buckets, frosty napkins.

In his cage of ether, his cage of stars.