I do nothing, I feel less, words dissolve in my cup
The thin places have disappeared and I’m stranded under blankets of clear sky.
Hidden stars as static as eternity promise more of the same.
Infinite refrain — who wants it?
I’d pay much for a minor-seventh chord right now.
The chipper Holly blind as sunglass leads a chorus of subterfuge
Sylvia Plath saw through it darkly and expired, a choice she couldn’t unchoose
She stayed on her suspension bridge where dead sunburned boards kept separating
Smelling the decay from the black below, she kept singing in her minor key,
until the last remaining rung cracked like a rifle shot spilling words beyond memory’s reach