I sit with Sylvia Plath
open.

Thunder tears my ideas
with the rip sound of newspaper.
It rains a cold shower
lit only by Hollywood B-grade lightning flashes.

Old spouting overflows. Waters spill;
a forgotten bath with taps left on.

Winds tug at washing that’s pegged tight. They
tangle soaked sheets around the line with
noisy bluster.

I sit with Sylvia Plath
open.

Listening to her voice?