After writing on Sylvia Plath
A glass jar rattles its split pears and pasta.
Those cysts look innocuous, but they weave
through the kernels, hatching into terrible insects.
Something's on the floor there,
buzzing like a swat wasp.
A belly like a moist rubber thimble
sucks and stings my finger. Ach,
my heel reduces it to sewage.
String the creatures up, then,
Hang them on the Christmas tree.
They glisten there like fish, or softly
lengthen into milliners' s feathers.
See, they are only moths, paper moths or horses,
not even paper but the Paisley curtain
sifting ashy patterns from the winter light.
Order, they order, order.
The flame gropes for a fire.
The dream asks meaning to patch its rags.
The flying words want paper to nest in.
Six colours rake the white reach of the rainbow.
Even the smallest hours crawl by with a number.
These letters are marching straight into an alphabet:
XYZ, not to infinity.
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