Regarding Sylvia Plath
She is polished by the sun,
the moon, the veils of sorrow
So hurt by, yet so in love with memoriesthat forge concepts into poems.
And they wax the eyes of our melancholy days—Could we accept pages less cold to touch?
An unopened birthday gift rests on her deskas benevolent bees sting blue stars
And death is a concept buriedbeneath that future winter.
(From the book Kairos)