Court Green Call
—for Sylvia Plath
Nobody’s about in the fog—
Devon seems intolerable without
The two young poets once here
No more hands writing lines—
Slivers of light in the darkness
Domesticity painting the bedrooms
The baby lace, the bee hive—
The boring British sleeping and
Slumbering from bottomless pits
The black phone waiting—
Voicelessness on the other end
Another glittering bitch goddess
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