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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.

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
Flash
Friend
Nobody
Morning
Flashes
Comes
Landlord
Like
Lamp
Daylight
Lamps

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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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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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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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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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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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