Sylvia Plath

Poems, Potatoes

The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line Ousts mistier peers and thrives, murderous, In establishments which imagined lines Can only haunt. Sturdy as potatoes, Stones, without conscience, word and line endure, Given an inch. Not that they're gross (although Afterthought often would have them alter To delicacy, to poise) but that they Shortchange me continuously: whether More or other, they still dissatisfy. Unpoemed, unpictured, the potato Bunches its knobby browns on a vastly Superior page; the blunt stone also.

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