Plath who has gone mad

translated by PLS

in the gently weaving orange drizzle

grows a fruit tree

mists streaming out of eyes thicken into a mountain

i am taller than myself, tall as

the shivering goat, restless

not for a milky lake

there are giant axes that slash the oceans everywhere

Ilongots let out their sad rage

icy blue hands, incarnadine heads

wintry winds blow open delivery packages to the south

no heart a plant stern as the moon

walk a long road, write a short snake

letters are the ice house, the station

glaze windows with a map sketched on a cage

i make up the overdue payment caused by being lost

you are not in a field, you won’t understand midnight

find a theatre in the dark

on the circular altar of Bacchus only

Antigone with her trembling voice

congealed hardened ice stiff knuckles that can’t even

remove the rectangular lid of Edgar Allan Poe’s coffin

you who masters the script is in no way to be found

the preposterous part is not your not showing up

pain pierces the bell canopy like a glint of light

i don’t want to lie but i see

footsteps swirling into cute horses in the woods

i am a dead branch, i am the sky