Tomorrow

Leaving should alter no past or present
or resurrect any need to reflect.

But it does.

It begins with a ring.
The sound of your voice and its effortless stretch through distant lines
is a melodic vibration that reaches back through years of embraces,
laughters, and smiles.

Even though every now and then, a day or two may skip ahead--
the invinsible lines of time reunite us.

As I call to say goodnight once more,
to tell you that yes, I still love you,
I pray you'll always know-- always remember
that wherever I am, I would not be
if not for you.
So no tears should travel down your ageless face
or sadness fill the heart.
Only on this earlthy plane
are we ever miles apart.

Said the Poet to the Analyst

From the Selected Poems of Anne Sexton
Houghton Mifflin, Harcourt, 2000

Said the Poet to the Analyst

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; 
as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic, 
unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings. 
I must always forget who one words is able to pick 
out another, to manner another, until I have got 
somethhing I might have said... 
but did not. 
Your business is watching my words. But I 
admit nothing. I work with my best, for instances, 
when I can write my praise for a nickel machine, 
that one night in Nevada: telling how the magic jackpot 
came clacking three bells out, over the lucky screen. 
But if you should say this is something it is not, 
then I grow weak, remembering how my hands felt funny 
and ridiculous and crowded with all 
the believing money.