An Abbreviation
I shoud've started listening to words that do not count
itself in a pieceless mouthpiece of wide-eyed sorrow
shutting itself, after words refire everything noting us
together: the lights,
flickers of the bones, orgys of the nine-inch
thunderburns, thunderlines, imaginary pieces of what
must have been neurosis of her backline teeths and tots and totters
and wingless dynamics of philosophy's only saddened worry:
a master line, a short pale pond of that strong-stretched hairline
leaning itself as if it were a glare our only stale eyes make
in some eye-shadowed sight against which our mirrors
seriously speak
Labels: Sylvia Plath
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