No map traces the street <br />Where those two sleepers are. <br />We have lost track of it. <br />They lie as if under water <br />In a blue, unchanging light, <br />The French window ajar <br /> <br />Curtained with yellow lace. <br />Through the narrow crack <br />Odors of wet earth rise. <br />The snail leaves a silver track; <br />Dark thickets hedge the house. <br />We take a backward look. <br /> <br />Among petals pale as death <br />And leaves steadfast in shape <br />They sleep on, mouth to mouth. <br />A white mist is going up. <br />The small green nostrils breathe, <br />And they turn in their sleep. <br /> <br />Ousted from that warm bed <br />We are a dream they dream. <br />Their eyelids keep up the shade. <br />No harm can come to them. <br />We cast our skins and slide <br />Into another time.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sleepers/
