that falls across his pillow
in the narrow slit of streetlight
through the blind,
Or soft steps
on morning floorboards,
familiar breath of cobwebs
draped above the window.
Anne Sexton's watercolors drool
a blemish on canvas,
a red sloop bucks on harbor waves,
waiting...
Or clay from which his world is cast.
Not the fire burning when sun slips away,
but the promise that embers will glow
when he wakes.
This is her choice:
not which man to be with,
but which self to be.
The healer's hands,
kneading his flesh
like dough for Easter bread,
Or the force that drives blood
through the bull?s heart,
Who with a toss of red hair
can set his bed aflame
and grind to paste the passion of his bones.
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