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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.

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
Winter
Poke
Ground
Sock
Clothes
Wears
Tree
Branch
Sheets
Branches
Trees
Snow

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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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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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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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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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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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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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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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