draft of a suicide note

keep the memory in form. your eyes are glass now, elemental creature trapped within. I still want to know what is happening. these are a suicide's hands. these are the nerves of a suicide. Sylvia is singing to me from the record. stolen record like these moments taken from your life. I don't think we'll be friends. the skin of earth forms over the container. still, I can see sky, I can see the transient world, wind & rain. there are so many of us designing lives. we judge, we breath. christ is only a shadow here.

I had a copy of the record of Sylvia Plath reading at the BBC. I believe I stole it from the Sangamon Library, but I don't really remember. I do remember having that record for a score of years. She does "Daddy" on it, and "Fever 103". Plath's work was very influential in my life. Well, the Ariel poems at least. At the end, when she was working entirely in metaphorical language and it was so very clear what she was saying. Reading some of these things now, as I approach sixty, I think it is remarkable I lived this long.