It is June. I am tired of being brave. - Anne Sexton

Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.

I refuse to remember the dead.
And the dead are bored with the whole thing.
But you - you go ahead,
go on, go back down,
into the graveyard,
lie down where you think their faces are;
talk back to your old bad dreams.

Now he is gone
as you are gone.
But he belongs to me like lost baggage.