THE SLEEPERS
No
map traces the street
Where
those two sleepers are.
We
have lost track of it.
They
lie as if under water
In
a blue, unchanging light,
The
French window ajar
Curtained
with yellow lace.
Through
the narrow crack
Odors
of wet earth rise.
The
snail leaves a silver track;
Dark
thickets hedge the house.
We
take a backward look.
Among
petals pale as death
And
leaves steadfast in shape
They
sleep on, mouth to mouth.
A
white mist is going up.
The
small green nostrils breathe,
And
they turn in their sleep.
Ousted
from that warm bed
We
are a dream they dream.
Their
eyelids keep up the shade.
No
harm can come to them.
We
cast our skins and slide
Into another time.
Silvia
Plath.
