On Deck Midnight in the mid-Atlantic. On deck. Wrapped up in themselves as in thick veiling And mute as mannequins in a dress shop, Some few passengers keep track Of the old star-map on the ceiling. Tiny and far, a single ship Lit like a two-tierd wedding cake Carries its candlesslowly off. Now there is nothing much to look at. Still nobody will move or speak— The bingo players, the players at love On a square no bigger than a carpet Are hustled over the crests and troughs, Each stalled in his particular minute And castled in it like a king. Small drops spot their coats, their gloves: They fly too fast to feel the wet. Anything can happen where they are going. The untidy lady revivalist For whom the good Lord provides (He gave Her a pocketbook, a pearl hatpin And seven winter coats last August) Prays under her breath that she may save The art students in West Berlin. The astrologer at her elbow (a Leo) Picked his trip-date by the stars. He is gratified by the absence of icecakes. He'll be rich in a year (and he should know) Selling the Welsh and English mothers Nativities at two-and-six. And the white-haired jeweler from Denmark is carving A perfectly faceted wife to wait On him hand and foot, quiet as a diamond. Monny baloons tied by a string To their owners' wrists, the light dreams float To be let loose at news of land. July 1960 —Sylvia Plath --

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