He rests in dead limbo
between two concepts:

Ability
(I know how to do that.)

and

Achievement
(Someone pays me to do that.)

Resting
in a bath of indeterminates
watching Plath's figs carefully,
noting every pregnant, over-laden wasp.

He touches nothing. Tastes nothing.

Resting; watching for rot.

Winter no longer scares him,
he cut his teeth on her malice
and now recognizes a fallacy
when he sees one.

He rests, and ignores his own rot.

Bathed in the comfort of disingenuous effort.


AN: I've been reading The Bell Jar. Are center alignments cliche?