Anne Sexton Poem by Robert Rorabeck

So you’ve written poetry,
And have beautiful scars, like
Burns in the pie-crust of American:
And I’ll write your introduction,
Even though we’ve sold all the trees
And I don’t know you.
I’ve seen one picture of you,
But I will not stare when you come awake
Again under my tents, swooning like
The damp laundry, or the birds
Picked from the dunes by the sky;
And I would lay my arms down beneath
You, to be christened or knighted,
Though you might not think to speak of this
Until the depressions of the next millennia;
And though I should be the dirtiest man
In the bookstore, I will smile even as I buy
Those things they forgot and have fallen into
The vague quarries of such professions:
Though I cannot see it anymore, I am
Published in mutations of sky, and I love you.