Meanders
Make me an inch-wide rectangle to fill my soul in
and punch along a hole over your eyes and glare across the wind
and buy me a record and soothe along the wished tears (the writhing)
and note over and out the downfall of this seeming pinch you do not consider
A sort of pain: a sulllen
wave of asking how to write a signal without signs
without hope or anything that slips away in morpheus' only way of sleeping
the dream of having tears in the naked sigh of not having to think
about our only way of signing off, our only bliss of making a sift
out of everthing that has had nothing to do with the real tear
of shifting, of this i stop a note without the right-wing ending.
I do not see an end of having nothing to begin.
Labels: Sylvia Plath, Walking In Cebu Streets
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