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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.

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
Extinction
Caves
Merry
Ocean
Becoming
Festering
Earth
Gravy
Right
Like
Oceans

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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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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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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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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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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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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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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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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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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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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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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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