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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.

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
Blowing
Although
Maybe
Heart
Like
Zeppelin
Zeppelins
Kitten
Butter

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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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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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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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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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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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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.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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