You're by Sylvia Plath
Clownlike, happiest on your hands
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fool's Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Father off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
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