Anticipating Sylvia

This is the product of over-dosing on Sylvia Plath's poetry, I think...

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ANTICIPATING SYLVIA

An enveloping hand,
Expansive, vast and ever-present,
Evaporates upon contact
With the crystal whiteness
Of her slender neck.

The frost creeps back
Into the dull brown sockets
And the universe is sucked
Into a vortex, explosively deep,
Cast blue-black shadow.

The inner and outer workings
Of schemas and lists upon lists
Upon paper torn from under
Bright red fingernails;
Painted or stained with sin.

Tugging a heartstring
Sounds like a Stradivarius crying
In anguish, mourning days
When a worthwhile artist
Lived to cry alongside.

If art is beauty then
It be only for the beholder
Who can only hold and not touch
Or fly or fall or feel
As deeply as is wished.