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Found Poetry 576

2/21/21

covered in surgeons, I look down
hooks in me, red as a flare
machines purr as if to keep a beat
in what seems like an unending tug of war
the hurricane of work finally passes over
my body feels like a corkscrew
a crooked manshape wearing a mask
cramped in my own bones
but lifted to a second chance

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

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