Mannequin heads - hard to look at - a poem I find hard to read.

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.  
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for  
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes  
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Poppies in October by Sylvia Plath