It is only time that weighs upon our hands It is only time and that is not material
(Fra Sylvia Plath: Three women)
I am slow as the world. I am very patient, Turning through my time, the suns and stars Regarding me with attention.
Parts, bits, cogs, the shining multiples.
I am dying as I sit. I lose a dimension.
Trains roar in my ears, departures, departures! The silver track of time empties into the distance, The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup. These are my feet, these mechanical echoes.
Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs. I am found wanting.
This is a disease I carry home, this is a death.
Again, this is a death. Is it the air,
The particles of destruction I suck up? Am I a pulse That wanes and wans, facing the cold angel?
Is this my lover then? This death, this death?
As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name.
Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?
I remember the minute I knew for sure
The willows were chilling,
The face in the pool was beautiful, but not mine – It had a consequential look, like everything else,
I wasn't ready. The white clouds rearing
Aside eere dragging me in four directions.
I wasn't ready.
I had no reverence.
I thought I could deny the consequence—
But it was too late for that. It was too late, and the face Went on shaping itself wilt love, as if I was ready.
I am calm. I am clam. It is the calm beofre something awful: The yellow minute beofre the wind walks, when the leaves Tur up their hands, their pallors. It is so quitet here.
The sheets, the faces, are white and stopped, like clocks (...)
There is no miracle more cruel than this.