The Companionable Ills Poem by Sylvia Plath
The Companionable Ills
The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfections—-
Tolerable now as moles on the face
Put up with until chagrin gives place
To a wry complaisance—-
Dug in first as God's spurs
To start the spirit out of the mud
It stabled in; long-used, became well-loved
Bedfellows of the spirit's debauch, fond masters.
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4/24/2024 4:43:05 AM # 1.0.0.1119
