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Years by Sylvia Plath
Years They enter as animals from the outer Space of holly where spikes Are not the thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi, But greenness, darkness so pure They freeze and are. O God, I am not like you In your vacuous black, Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti. Eternity bores me, I never wanted it. What I love is The piston in motion My soul dies before it. And the hooves on the horses, Their merciless churn. And you, great Stasis What is so great in that ! Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door ? Is it a Christus, The awful God-bit in him Dying to fly and be done with it ? The blood berries are themselves, they are very still. The hooves will not have it, In blue distance the pistons hiss.