the collected poems

i see

the dog off in the corner

eating

the collected

poems

of Sylvia Plath, the ink

runs

from his mouth,

the words

stuck to his tongue

that hangs out.

he seems both happy

and sad

at the same time,

full

of falling moons,

and a bloody

sunrise.

the bees

and fathers, achoo,

achoo.

i'll let him eat and chew,

it's the least

i can do

for a fellow lover

of her blues.