Mystic
The air is a mill of hooks
Questions without answer,
Glittering and drunk as flies
Whose kiss stings unbearably
In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer.
I remember
The dead smell of sun on wood cabins,
The stiffness of sails, the lond salt winding sheets.
Once one has seen God, what si the remedy?
Once one has been seized up
Without a part left over
Not a toe, a finger, and used
Used utterly, in the sun's conflagrations, the stains
That lengthen from ancient cathedral
What is the remedy?
The pill of the Communion tablet,
The walking beside still water? Memory?
Or picking up the bright pieces
Of Christ in the faces of rodents
The tame flower-nibblers, the ones
Whose hopes are low so that they are comfortable--
The humpback in his small, washed cottage
Under the spokes of the clematis.
Is there no great love, only tenderness?
Does the sea
Remember the walker upon it?
Meaning leaks from the molecules.
The chimneys of the city breathe, teh window sweats,
The children leap in their cots.
The sun blooms, it is a geranium.
The heart has not stopped.
.:sylvia plath:.
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