sleep in the mojave desert

• bir sylvia plath şiiri..
  
  out here there are no hearthstones,
  hot grains, simply. it is dry, dry.
  and the air dangerous. noonday acts queerly
  on the mind's eye erecting a line
  of poplars in the middle distance, the only
  object beside the mad, straight road
  one can remember men and houses by.
  a cool wind should inhabit these leaves
  and a dew collect on them, dearer than money,
  in the blue hour before sunup.
  yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow,
  or those glittery fictions of spilt water
  that glide ahead of the very thirsty.
  
  i think of the lizards airing their tongues
  in the crevice of an extremely small shadow
  and the toad guarding his heart's droplet.
  the desert is white as a blind man's eye,
  comfortless as salt. snake and bird
  doze behind the old maskss of fury.
  we swelter like firedogs in the wind.
  the sun puts its cinder out. where we lie
  the heat-cracked crickets congregate
  in their black armorplate and cry.
  the day-moon lights up like a sorry mother,
  and the crickets come creeping into our hair
  to fiddle the short night away.