The God
I just want to breathe
air, even axe-filled air, trapped axe-filled downright filthy
air of some sort, anything that rhymes with its essence
anything that breathes aptly itself in a pattern like mine
air that sings portions of rums and wines and diamonds'
crescent: a sheath of it's tiny slit that overruns the door
we cannot understand to open, to withdraw, to close ajar
without rhyming a bang over its turning-back gesture.
If its her that i exhale let me inhale back a ripple
from the air of some other sort, the degree of some burn
the magic of some curbed curve over the pee-peep of this
jeep: air lies with it and as you conceal a cloth over
your mouthpiece, your nose bleeds a hot tone in a hot tune
over the air we inevitably breathe:
His Breath
air, even axe-filled air, trapped axe-filled downright filthy
air of some sort, anything that rhymes with its essence
anything that breathes aptly itself in a pattern like mine
air that sings portions of rums and wines and diamonds'
crescent: a sheath of it's tiny slit that overruns the door
we cannot understand to open, to withdraw, to close ajar
without rhyming a bang over its turning-back gesture.
If its her that i exhale let me inhale back a ripple
from the air of some other sort, the degree of some burn
the magic of some curbed curve over the pee-peep of this
jeep: air lies with it and as you conceal a cloth over
your mouthpiece, your nose bleeds a hot tone in a hot tune
over the air we inevitably breathe:
His Breath
Labels: Sylvia Plath
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