A friend of your neighbor's uncle
was incinerated in his armchair. Lit cigarette,
someone will say. People don't just
go up like that.

Or down, you think, or down, watching
the ventilator accordion.
There's always
that cigarette.

photograph by Connor Creagan
spark here


From the Journals of Sylvia Plath

I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can’t be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head.

Still nothing. I don't know where it's gone.

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