by Sylvia Plath

Will they occur, These people with torso of steel Winged elbows and eyeholes Awaiting masses Of cloud to give them expression, These super-people! - And my baby a nail Driven, driven in. He shrieks in his grease Bones nosing for distance. And I, nearly extinct, His three teeth cutting Themselves on my thumb - And the star, The old story. In the lane I meet sheep and wagons, Red earth, motherly blood. O You who eat People like light rays, leave This one Mirror safe, unredeemed By the dove's annihilation, The glory The power, the glory.