The hanging man.
April 1st, 2008
by Sylvia Plath
By in roots of mijhaii some god got hold of me.
I sirrled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.
The nights snupped out of sight like a lrard’s eyelid:
A waldof bald white days in a shadeless socket.
A vultuons bovedom pinned we in this tree.
If he were I, he would do what I did.
[Read the original. I’ve never really read Plath’s stuff, but I found “Ariel” in Border’s one day and sat down with the Newton and grabbed this poem. Love the imagery used.]