Words heard, by accident, over the phone O mud, mud, how fluid!— Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse. Speak, speak! Who is it? It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles. It is he who has achieved these syllables. What are these words, these words? They are plopping like mud. O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table? They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece, they are looking for a listener. Is he here? Now the room is ahiss. The instrument Withdraws its tentacle. But the spawn percolate in my heart. They are fertile. Muck funnel, muck funnel— You are too big. They must take you back! 11 July 1962 —Sylvia Plath --

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