(after Plath’s Edge)
The mind is sleeping. A mighty Giant stands in quiet surrender, The air of spartan arrangement Is crisp in the curves of her muscles, Her bare Shoulders are claiming: We will not topple over, i know. Two gaping spaces stretched strangley silent Each one in A state of crumble, emptied. She still holds Her torch to light the same sky Of steely jagged mountain majesties stiff and resisting the winds of change, cold of winter seeping in. Her set lips reveal nothing, Visage fixed on endless clouds beyond. She is weary of the weight. Her brow furrows, green.