Smith Plath
Woolf and praying porters
Came
knocking today
In an
attempt to save me
From this
grey tempered May.
Brain
tumours, ovens and pocket stones,
They didn’t
have porters to pray.
Although
rivers failed to drown their words
The waters
took them away.
I lay on
someone else’s bed
The weight
of my tiredness has outweighed mine.
I should be
typing but I’m wallowing instead
On tumours,
ovens and stones,
On the sun,
a salty sea and a blue sky.
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