reading Sylvia Plath (on a Friday night)

not quite midnight yet the page
hustles me to suddenly note –
the catch of desperation in my throat
outside Earl’s temptous winds a beggar
on their wayward trek to Maine
clacking round my lonely legs bare lain
with echoes of a lonely man
whom outside speaks maniacal tone
“where am i going?” i couldn’t know
and the north winds of a sweet
counter-clockwise spin round, a round
saying lonely child, silence is yet a sound.

6 thoughts on “reading Sylvia Plath (on a Friday night)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s