The Great Carbuncle We came over the moor-top Through air streaming and green-lit, Stone farms foundering in it, Valleys of grass altering In a light neither of dawn Nor nightfall, our hands, faces Lucent as porcelain, the earth's Claim and weight gone out of them. Some such transfiguring moved The eight pilgrims towards its source-- Toward that great jewel: shown often, Never given; hidden, yet Simultaneously seen On moor-top, at sea-bottom, Knowable only by light Other than noon, than moon, stars-- The once-known way becoming Wholly other, and ourselves Estranged, changed, suspended where Angels are rumored, clearly Floating, among the floating Tables and chairs. Gravity's Lost in the lift and drift of An easier element Than earth, and there is nothing So fine we cannot do it. But nearing means distancing: At the common homecoming Light withdraws. Chairs, tables drop Down: the body weighs like stone. --Sylvia Plath --

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