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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

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
Boat
Sea
Future
Stills
Doe
Home
Fog
Still
Floats
Hanging

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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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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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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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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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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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