I can taste the tin of the sky —- the real tin thing. <br />Winter dawn is the color of metal, <br />The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves. <br />All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —- <br />An assembly-line of cut throats, and you and I <br />Inching off in the gray Chevrolet, drinking the green <br />Poison of stilled lawns, the little clapboard gravestones, <br />Noiseless, on rubber wheels, on the way to the sea resort. <br /> <br />How the balconies echoed! How the sun lit up <br />The skulls, the unbuckled bones facing the view! <br />Space! Space! The bed linen was giving out entirely. <br />Cot legs melted in terrible attitudes, and the nurses —- <br />Each nurse patched her soul to a wound and disappeared. <br />The deathly guests had not been satisfied <br />With the rooms, or the smiles, or the beautiful rubber plants, <br />Or the sea, Hushing their peeled sense like Old Mother Morphia.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waking-in-winter/
