The Sleepers

The Sleepers by Sylvia Plath

“No map traces the street

Where those two sleepers are.

We have lost track of it.

They lie as if under water

In a blue, unchanging light,

The French window ajar

Curtained with yellow lace.

Through the narrow crack

Odors of wet earth rise.

The snail leaves a silver track;

Dark thickets hedge the house.

We take a backward look.

Among petals pale as death

And leaves steadfast in shape

They sleep on, mouth to mouth.

A White mist is going up.

The small green nostrils breathe,

And they turn in their sleep.

Ousted from that warm bed

We are a dream they dream.

Their eyelids keep the shade.

No harm can come to them.

We cast out skins and slide

Into another time.”

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