Found Poetry 471

12/22/20

the grave makes things level
opaque dirt walls they worship
the public walks over the leaves
rubbing the old worn stones
a dark door with a soil hinge
propped open for wordless names

This poem was created from Sylvia Plath's collected works. Click here to get a book of Plath's poems.

Please anonymously VOTE on the content you have just read:

Like:
Dislike:



For poetry, I recommend:


Please show me a randomly selected poem