postcards

Poems, Potatoes by Sylvia Plath

The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line 
Ousts mistier peers and thrives, murderous, 
In establishments which imagined lines 

Can only haunt. Sturdy as potatoes, 
Stones, without conscience, word and line endure, 
Given an inch. Not that they’re gross (although 

Afterthought often would have them alter 
To delicacy, to poise) but that they 
Shortchange me continuously: whether 

More or other, they still dissatisfy. 
Unpoemed, unpictured, the potato 
Bunches its knobby browns on a vastly 
Superior page; the blunt stone also.