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Who had both nipples on one titty

While one was scorned

The other so amply adorned

She reveled in list and eschewed the

I LOVE YOU

In writing an "O" it is telling how the two ends meet: to the left, to the right, with flourishes?

FOREVER

Does it drop, perfect' a circle, are there corner hints, can you tell the join?

FOREVER I'LL LOVE YOU

It takes a fine hand

To shout from the street

Sylvia Plath leaned in to check the meatloaf

daydreaming of storm torn mountains

and mountainous fathers.

She may have dreamed of a tree split by lightening

or a summer tree heavy with ripe figs.

She may have dreamed of growing up

and the fear in being whole,

the moment childhood’s cape fell to the ground

making no sound.

Or a rope with two ends,

One to pull you from the water

The other with a noose.

What if she dreamed of a man’s face bridled by a smile

The man said he loved her, teeth  gleaming, lips rigid,

with eyes on both sides of his head.

Shocked she looked at her hand, the hand that held the leash

and her finger had a ring of gleaming teeth.

What if she dropped the leash

and small patterns of poetry

intersected with green doubts

about a man and, oddly, meatloaf.

the familiar smells ran off

barking like excited dogs.

Her attention strayed to the door

but neither her husband or her father knocked.

It was a moment to long

What’s for dinner Grandma?

What’s for dinner?  Grandma?

What’s on the road ahead?

You left suddenly

But I will wait for winter

You left suddenly

but I shall wait for summer

A message in snow

concealed by an airless night

I wait in the rain

watching puddles in the road

Eulogy for Honico Howard

We  love this tree in black and white,

big enough for the barest light.

With an oaken calm at the wall of night

She insured herself for her moon’s slow flight

By leaving seeds for the love of life.

  When the heavy boots of the soul digress

And the body is still as water at rest

We are all minded of time and its guests.

Praying, by her union with the earth we are blessed

When the moon descends the sun unbows,

A man frantic,

bags in hand,

rides the train

anxiously making 

each connection

in the shortest

time possible

and arrives

at the final

station still

tightly gripping

Winter envelopes

Settles into formal drifts

The earth still lives,

an aesthetic in the noon

shadow of memories

that burst through the sand

like a sphinx.

  In this line drawing of life,

a broke back bridge

is a temple for the moon

and no one know what place

the silence conceals

or what comforts rock

that replaced trees

or which feelings the lack allays.

  Rock is everywhere,

a new standard of solitude,

in all possible miscellany

from numberless sands

to boulders in the likeness

of George Washington.

  But what men remain

will rest in the umbrage

of only those stones

that most closely resemble