plath by candlelight...
"this is winter, this is night, small love --
a sort of black horsehair,
a rough, dumb country stuff
steeled with the sheen
of what green stars can make it to our gate.
i hold you on my arm.
it is very late.
the dull bells tongue the hour.
the mirror floats us at one candle power.
this is the fluid in which we meet each other,
this haloey radiance that seems to breathe
and lets our shadows wither
only to blow
them huge again, violent giants on the wall.
one match scratch makes you real."
when the onset of not-quite-spring comes and i turn back to sylvia,
something underground is stirring.
hard earth, still. too hard to let much surface.
but something is there.
we're dancing on tiptoes and waiting and watching.
we're laughing hard while we can, then looking away.
this dance isn't the dance at all,
but rather: the intermission.
sleep deprived and overthinking,
caro
a sort of black horsehair,
a rough, dumb country stuff
steeled with the sheen
of what green stars can make it to our gate.
i hold you on my arm.
it is very late.
the dull bells tongue the hour.
the mirror floats us at one candle power.
this is the fluid in which we meet each other,
this haloey radiance that seems to breathe
and lets our shadows wither
only to blow
them huge again, violent giants on the wall.
one match scratch makes you real."
when the onset of not-quite-spring comes and i turn back to sylvia,
something underground is stirring.
hard earth, still. too hard to let much surface.
but something is there.
we're dancing on tiptoes and waiting and watching.
we're laughing hard while we can, then looking away.
this dance isn't the dance at all,
but rather: the intermission.
sleep deprived and overthinking,
caro