Gone, I say and walk from church, <br />refusing the stiff procession to the grave, <br />letting the dead ride alone in the hearse. <br />It is June. I am tired of being brave. <br /> <br />We drive to the Cape. I cultivate <br />myself where the sun gutters from the sky, <br />where the sea swings in like an iron gate <br />and we touch. In another country people die. <br /> <br />My darling, the wind falls in like stones <br />from the whitehearted water and when we touch <br />we enter touch entirely. No one's alone. <br />Men kill for this, or for as much. <br /> <br />And what of the dead? They lie without shoes <br />in the stone boats. They are more like stone <br />than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse <br />to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-truth-the-dead-know/
