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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

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
Fragile
Grass
Ground
Wonder
Break
Anything
Stout
Survives
Wondering

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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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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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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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All who love have lied.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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