Sunday, April 27, 2008
Sylvia Plath on the forgetfulness of being.
I shall count and bury the dead.¶ 8:39 AM
Let their souls writhe in like dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces
Step up to you from the black car of Lethe,
Pure as a baby.
P. 249
