My business is words. Words are like labels, <br />or coins, or better, like swarming bees. <br />I confess I am only broken by the sources of things; <br />as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic, <br />unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings. <br />I must always forget who one words is able to pick <br />out another, to manner another, until I have got <br />somethhing I might have said… <br />but did not. <br />Your business is watching my words. But I <br />admit nothing. I worth with my best, for instances, <br />when I can write my praise for a nickel machine, <br />that one night in Nevada: telling how the magic jackpot <br />came clacking three bells out, over the lucky screen. <br />But if you should say this is something it is not, <br />then I grow weak, remembering how my hands felt funny <br />and ridiculous and crowded with all <br />the believing money.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/said-the-poet-to-the-analyst/
