Sylvia Plath


They enter as animals from the outer Space of holly where spikes Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi, But greenness, darkness so pure They freeze and are. O God, I am not like you In your vacuous black, Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti. Eternity bores me, I never wanted it. What I love is The piston in motion . . . My soul dies before it. And the hooves of the horses, There merciless churn. And you, great Stasis . . . What is so great in that! Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door? It is a Christus, The awful God-bit in him Dying to fly and be done with it? The blood berries are themselves, they are very still. The hooves will not have it, In blue distance the pistons hiss.

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