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no. 11

All right, let's say you could take a skull and break it The way you'd crack a clock; you'd crush the bone Between steel palms of inclination, take it, Observing the wreck of metal and rare stone.

This was a woman: her loves and stratagems Betrayed in mute geometry of broken Cogs and Disks, inane mechanic whims, And idle coils of jargon yet unspoken.

Not man nor demigod could put together The scraps of rusted reverie, the wheels Of notched tin platitudes concerning weather, Perfume, politics, and fixed ideals.

The idiot bird leaps up and drunken leans To chirp the hour in lunatic thirteens.

Sylvia Plath

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