Call

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