January 2010
19 posts
the sleepers sylvia plath no map traces the street where those two sleepers are. we have lost track of it. they lie as if under water in a blue, unchanging light, the french window ajar crtained with yellow lace. through the narrow crack odors of wet earth rise. the snail leaves a silver track; dark thickets hedge the house.
we take a backward look. among petals pale as death and leaves steadfast...
