Madness is Plath lettering annotations into the wallpaper,
Sexton looking into her curls, brown buzzard. Madness,
a respite, and vision of tulip-shaped heads. Madness, the
corn poppy less than or equal to the polyantha rose, its
posturing as erect, sculpted into moonstone. As Rodin’s
Camille throwing off her Breton headdress as if no
faith could contain her, her dreams in disarray. Petals.
Hardwood shavings. Maelstrom. Crumbling bartizan.
Hidden lintel. Sand against skin. Industrial glass. Madness
wading through mud towards the mangrove tree, knife
wounds in its roots cleaved, open like black leaves. Within a
megalith curve, quivering promise. Another forty years.