Stasis in darkness. …
Sylvia Plath
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries, …
You do not do, you do not do …
The woman is perfected. …
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: …
Pure? What does it mean? …
Old man, you surface seldom. …
I have done it again. …
Love set you going like a fat gold watch. …
I am a miner. The light burns blue. …
My father kept a speckled conch …
First, are you our sort of a person? First, are you our sort of a person? As the first line and the title indicate, the “applying” man/customer has no guarantee that the salesman can find a wife for him because he does not look like the ideal candidate. In other words, he is a mutilated man. …
I shall never get you put together entirely, …
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. …
Clownlike, happiest on your hands, …