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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Moths
Knee
Kissed
Knees
Back
Moth

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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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