O mud, mud, how fluid! --
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is it?
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.
It is he who has achieved these syllables.
What are these words, these words?
They are plopping like mud.
O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table?
They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece, they are looking for a
listener.
Is he here?
Now the room is ahiss. The instrument
Withdraws its tentacle.
But the spawn percolate in my heart. They are fertile.
Muck funnel, muck funnel -
You are too big. They must take you back!
Words Heard, By Accident, Over The Phone
Sylvia Plath
(1)
Poem topics: god, heart, room, clean, coffee, phone, speak, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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