the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hallow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
i would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball in twilight
—April 18. Sylvia Plath.
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