Here's a poem I wrote to Sylvia Plath, followed by one I wrote about a cat

Sylvia knows that the trees of the mind are black
but what can she do about it?

I am in the woods,
and she is the life of night
and in the light of night.
The kind that makes stages bright,
the kind that flashing cameras make.
And she is on my mind.

I am in the fecund forest of her indifference,
in the center of which a secret may exist.
I am trying to get at it.

----------------------------------------------------

There's a black mass that moves
through the grass
like a kitty cat,
winding through the weeds,
and all of that.
Purring on the earth,
eating the bugs in the breeze,
chasing the wind-sent leaves.
There's a black mass like that,
and it's a kitty cat.