Anne Sexton Poems

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
...

For the angels who inhabit this town,
although their shape constantly changes,
each night we leave some cold potatoes
...

You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
...

They sit in a row
outside the kindergarten,
black, red, brown, all
with those brass buckles.
...

It is snowing and death bugs me
as stubborn as insomnia.
The fierce bubbles of chalk,
the little white lesions
...

1.

I am thirty this November.
You are still small, in your fourth year.
We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer,
...

My business is words. Words are like labels,
or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
I confess I am only broken by the sources of things;
...

1. Old Man

Old man, it's four flights up and for what?
Your room is hardly bigger than your bed.
...

If you danced from midnight
to six A.M. who would understand?
...

Linda, you are leaving
your old body now,
It lies flat, an old butterfly,
all arm, all leg, all wing,
...