The Great Carbuncle
We came over the moor-top
Through air steaming and green-lit,
Stone farms foundering in it
Valleys of grass altering
In a light neither of dawn
Nor nightfall, our hands, faces
Lucent as porcelain, the earth's
Claim and weight gone out of them.
Some such transfiguring moved
The eight pilgrims towards its source-
Toward that great jewel: shown often,
Never given; hidden, yet
Simultaneously seen
On moor-top, at sea bottom,
Knowable only by light
Other than moon, stars--
The once-known way becoming
Wholly other, and ourselves
Estranged, changed, suspended where
Abgels are rumored, clearly
Floating, among the floating
Tables and chairs. Gravity's
Lost in the lift and drift of
An easier element
Than earth, and there is nothing
So fine we cannot do it.
But nearing means distancing:
At the common homecoming
Light withdraws. Chairs, tables drop
Down: the body weighs like stone.
.:sylvia plath:.
.:back:.
.:home:.
