biochicklet

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tulips-2

You’re

Clownlike,happiest on your hands

Feet to the stars, and moon-skilled,

Gilled like a fish. A common-sense

Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.

Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,

Trawling your dark, as owls do.

Mute as a turnip from the Fourth

Of July to All Fools’ Day,

O high-riser my little loaf.

 

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.

Farther off than Australia.

Bent-back Atlas, our travelled prawn.

Snug as a bug and at home

Like a sprat in a pickle jug.

A creel of eels, all ripples.

Jumpy as a Mexican bean.

Right, like a well-done sum.

A clean slate, with your own face on.

Sylvia Plath

 

 

 

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Author: biochicklet

Scientist raised by intellectuals on poetry, theater, art, history and music in New York City. Escaped to New Mexico to nature and mysticism. Knowing that the absurdities in this life are what we must laugh at.

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