The Couriers

The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine, do not accept it.

Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.

A ring of gold iwth the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.


Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling

All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps,

A disturbance in mirrors
The sea shattering its grey one-

Love, love, my season.



-Sylvia Plath