The Couriers
By Silvia Plath
The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and cracklingAll to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one ——Love, love, my season.
