Sylvia Plath – The Couriers

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The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.

Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.

A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.


Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling

All to itself on top of each
Of nine black Alps.

A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one--


Love, love, my season.

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