Sylvia Plath


From my rented attic with no earth To call my own except the air-motes, I malign the leaden perspective Of identical gray brick houses, Orange roof-tiles, orange chimney pots, And see that first house, as if between Mirrors, engendering a spectral Corridor of inane replicas, Flimsily peopled. But landowners Own thier cabbage roots, a space of stars, Indigenous peace. Such substance makes My eyeful of reflections a ghost's Eyeful, which, envious,would define Death as striking root on one land-tract; Life, its own vaporous wayfarings.

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