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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.

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
Boils
Eleven
Town
Towns
Silent
Stars
Dies
Night
Starry

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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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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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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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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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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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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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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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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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