Court Green Call
—for Sylvia Plath

Nobody’s about in the fog—
Devon seems intolerable without
The two young poets once here

No more hands writing lines—
Slivers of light in the darkness
Domesticity painting the bedrooms

The baby lace, the bee hive—
The boring British sleeping and
Slumbering from bottomless pits

The black phone waiting—
Voicelessness on the other end
Another glittering bitch goddess

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