Sylvia Plath


Riding home from credulous blue domes, the dreamer reins his waking appetite in panic at the crop of catacombs sprung up like plague of toadstools overnight: refectories where he reveled have become the holstery of worms, rapacious blades who weave within the skeleton's white womb a caviare decay of rich brocades. Turning the tables of this grave gourmet, the fiendish butler saunters in and serves for feast the sweetest meat of hell's chef d' uvres: his own pale bride upon a flaming tray: parsleyed with elegies, she lies in state waiting for his grace to consecrate.

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