Plath's poppies bloom
In days of gloom,
From July through October.
The scarlet florets burn like ember,
And line up before tombstones 
And hallucinatory portals.
Some look up to the sky, their eventual abode,
And some like a skirt, tent their petals. 
A sprightly bird's staccato trills 
Fragment further when hit by perils
That tag along with the siren of the ambulance
Carting a lady who...

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