Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far ... - Anne Sexton

Earth, earth
riding your merry-go-round
toward extinction,
right to the roots
thickening the oceans like gravy,
festering in your caves,
you are becoming a latrine.

I was born doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are.

I never seemed to like the spring for what it was; I always loved it for what it might have been. In the head. In the heart of hearts. It is in my ability, I think, to love something fully only if I am naturally, compulsively, irrationally drawn to it.