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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.

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
Live
Climate
Made
Streets
Marriage
Cold
Wasn
Permitted
Called
Kiss
Song
Kissing
True
Street

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Poetry to me is prayer.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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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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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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Need is not quite belief.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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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.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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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.
Anne Sexton