Monday, April 2, 2012


Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

Sylvia Plath


bean said...

Goddamn I love this poem.

Rot said...

You've introduced me to the coolest things.


Anonymous said...

Cool poem. They are so cool to look at sometimes....

But on my food, no way. said...

I only think of the green glow of the mushrooms in that story you wrote when I see mushrooms now...and that old lady in her chair.

Pam Morris said...

awesome poem and so deliciously dark sounding!