You're Clownlike, happiest on your hands, Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled, Gilled like a fish. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode. Wrapped up in yourself like a spool, Trwaling your dark as owls do. Mute as a turnip from the Fourth Of July to All Fool's Day, O high-riser, my little loaf. Vague as fog anf looked for like mail. Farther off than Australia. Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn. Snug as a bud and at home Like a sprat in a pickle jug. A creel of eels, all ripples. Jumpy as a Mexican bean. Right, like a well-dine sum. A clean slate, with your own face on. Januray/February 1960 —Sylvia Plath --

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