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Youre

 Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish.
A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool, Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth Of July to All Fools' Day, O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.

Poem by Sylvia Plath
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