The Everlasting Monday

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Thou shalt have an everlastingMonday and stand in the moon

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Thou shalt have an everlasting
Monday and stand in the moon.

The moon's man stands in his shell,
Bent under a bundle
Of sticks. The light falls chalk and cold
Upon our bedspread.
His teeth are chattering among the leprous
Peaks and craters of those extinct volcanoes.

He also against black frost
Would pick sticks, would not rest
Until his own lit room outshone
Sunday's ghost of sun;
Now works his hell of Mondays in the moon's ball,
Fireless, seven chill seas chained to his ankle.

He also against black frostWould pick sticks, would not restUntil his own lit room outshoneSunday's ghost of sun;Now works his hell of Mondays in the moon's ball,Fireless, seven chill seas chained to his ankle

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Sylvia Plath PoetryWhere stories live. Discover now