Sylvia Plath


Clocks belled twelve. Main street showed otherwise Than its suburb of woods : nimbus--- Lit, but unpeopled, held its windows Of wedding pastries, Diamond rings, potted roses, fox-skins Ruddy on the wax mannequins In a glassed tableau of affluence. From deep-sunk basements What moved the pale, raptorial owl Then, to squall above the level Of streetlights and wires, its wall to wall Wingspread in control Of the ferrying currents, belly Dense-feathered, fearfully soft to Look upon? Rats' teeth gut the city Shaken by owl cry.

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