Sylvia Plath Bot
@SylviaPlathBot
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Tweets random bits of Sylvia Plath's poetry every hour
Joined March 2018
She'll cut her throat at ten if she's mad at two.
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At the cradle of Spanish walnut,.Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
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Since Christmas they have lived with us,.Guileless and clear,.
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The horizons are too far off to be chummy as uncles;.The colors assert themselves with a sort of vengeance.
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Immense, bald, though baby-headed,.Cried out for the mother's dug.
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each finger-furrowed field.heaves forth stalk, leaf, fruit-nubbed emerald;.
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Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;.The black marauder, hauled by love.On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.
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Sun was striking.While chapel pinnacles over the roofs,.
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Spotted cows revolve their jaws and crop.Red clover or gnaw beetroot.
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The food tubes embrace me. Sponges kiss my lichens away.
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And my grandfather moped in the Tyrol.Imagining himself a headwaiter in America,.Floating in a high-church hush.
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