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Poems By Sylvia Plath

Insomniac
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in ( Read more... )

locked.

intrigued, add.

comment, intrigue me.

i add you back.

simple.