a tadpole dance with he who cannot sing
among the reeds with plants of little care.
the twelve have gone
now shades of dissapointment stumble free;
noontide as strong as all who care to show
a longing for; a stain beneath the eye;
too late to gather prayer
now gods of wood march cheerfully ahead
to wars of unattended anecdotes
through a cloud of void more impodent than he;
too many hands of clay
crawling loveless; dead as only death himelf knows how;
where are they now?
the dead that once gave seed to pastures new.
one penny both their pendulum and pit;
meridian moods of constant praise be gone;
am happiest in the company of Plath.
share her comic accident of birth.
and tolerate the humour of a worm;