Monday, Oct. 27, 2003 - 11:47 pm

The Companionable Ills-S. Plath

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.