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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.

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
Warmth
Warm
Almost
Word
Experience
Love
Moist
Unbearable

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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
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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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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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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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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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Why are all these dolls falling out of the sky? Was there a father? Or have the planets cut holes in their nets and let our childhood out, or are we the dolls themselves, born but never fed?
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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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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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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